The Overturn of the Evil Queen
by DiMick
Summary: The curse is breaking, and Regina is determined not to let it happen. Putting the last of her magic into a poisoned turnover, however, does not go quite to plan...
1. Chapter 1

I wake, suddenly, with a gasp. The dream, a nightmare if you will, still clings about me, fogging my thoughts, and I take a few shaky breaths of air to calm myself. It had been too real, too vivid to slip easily into the realm of the forgotten. My first coherent thought is for my son, complicit in my dream already forgiven, and I start from the bed, practically flying down the hallway to his bedroom. The reassuring pile of bed clothes and the softly rotating lights reassure me not all is lost – not yet. The memory of the dream haunts me still, my passive acceptance of my doom disgusting me. While I still stand, while I have breath in my body, I will play the game, bend every rule there is, just to win.

I pad silently downstairs, trying not to wake my sleeping son, filling a glass with whiskey with a practiced motion. It burns at my throat on the way down, the pain reaffirming my ability to feel – a sign, perhaps, that I am still alive. I shudder as the memory of the blade hitting me creeps back into my vision, and a second and third glass quickly follow. They do they work, and when I return to bed sleep comes easily, without dreams.

Just a few hours later, light weakly filtering through the curtains, I wake and dress, leaving Henry to sleep just a little longer. Out of the kitchen window I glimpse the apple trees, and have to check. Rotten to the core, she said. The apple under my hand is solid and firm, even as I clench my fist around it. I bite it, pure and sweet as my apples always have been. I smile, pleased, but the force of the dream is enough to cause me to reach up again and pluck another apple from the tree. Firm and sweet, it seems, but as my fingers curl around the all too perfect exterior, its flesh gives way, cracking under the pressure, a sign of the decay inside.

Gold is no help, and his sick pleasure, the twisting of his mouth and barely concealed snicker, make me think that the rules of the game we play might not be all I had thought. I watch the pathetic inhabitants of this too perfect town as I leave the deal-maker's shop. Not one of them, I think, is capable of defeating me. Not there, in that other land, nor here, even with power and magic stripped from me. Victory, they say, belongs to the one who wants it most. Well, little people with your little lives, that person is me. Have you ever had to give up the thing you love the most for the thing you most desire? Have you watched your father die, his blood slick and hot upon your hands, so that you could be free of your mother's hate? Have you destroyed worlds and countless lives and maybe even your own soul just so that, for once, you could watch someone else lose? No, not one them has, or ever could. And that is why, against all the odds, this time I'll be the one to win.

I feel their eyes on me as I enter Granny's diner, fear and respect in their gaze. The cheap diner smells of them, of disappointed hope, crushed dreams and unrequited love. Some, I think, look at me confused, as if trying to remember something just out of reach. I know what they are reaching for, even if they do not. David, or whatever his name is here, refuses to look in my direction. Foolish man, I think, to reject me, in both lives. Steadfastly standing by his godforsaken morals, knowing that they serve him badly, yet choosing to remain loyal, even if it means losing all.

That's the difference, between these sheep and me – they expect that good things happen to good people, a kind of cosmic karma, and they wait, true and pure, only to be disappointed again and again. I know, and Gold knows, that if you want something, it's not enough to deserve it – you have to earn it, pay for it with sweat and blood and pieces of your very own soul. They wait, in blissful, cursed ignorance, for a saviour to come and rescue them all, when they could be out making their own happy endings. And damn it all if the saviour hasn't arrived this time.

Damn Emma Swan, I think as that wolf girl hands me my coffee, eyes wide at the scowl on my face. Damn her. I have to fight the anger that wells up inside, the urge to hurt and maim, to throw the scalding liquid at the next person that looks at me sideways.

I don't, of course. Such things are not appropriate behaviour for the town's mayor, no matter the provocation. Besides, venting the anger would only let it dissipate, weaken, and I need its strength for the fight ahead. I imagine, seeing it clear in my mind's eye, shutting the clasp of a box, anger trapped within, and locking the padlock tight. I am rejuvenated, driven anew, strength climbing again as I slip the playing card onto the child's bicycle. Her father, I know, will not fail to answer. He is weak, without the strength or conviction to do what he knows he ought. Jefferson, when he arrives, is too easy too control, to willing to bend to my whim. I might not know the rules but at least, I tell myself, I still know how to play the game.

It's a risk, showing him the vault, but it is a calculated one – he can always be dealt with, later. The loss of Daniel's ring hurts, but less than I might have expected, once. The memory, however, of Snow taking that fateful bite, is just as sweet and satisfying as the first time. I watch again as she bites deep into its flesh, juices filling her mouth, and I wait expectantly, eagerly, every fibre of my being focused on this moment in time, exalting as she takes her last choking breath. I let the feeling fill me from head to toe, more lasting than childhood joy, more comforting than a mother's love, more satisfying than the most skillful lover. I imagine that feeling spreading out from my heart, right to the end of each and every hair, letting the taste of victory fill my mouth.

Baking the turnover is easy, the stages learnt by rote long ago. With each beat of the whisk, or roll of the pin, I imagine the face of Emma Swan, contorting as the poison runs through her veins. I can see it, the crumpling fall of the lips, the widening of her eyes as she realizes, the panicked fluttering of her hands as they grasp at her throat. The thrill is visceral and, for a moment I pause, close my eyes and allow myself to wish the huntsman had not forced me to dispose of him. Had he still been here, my plaything, I would have called the Sherriff's office immediately and celebrated my latest perfect move.

The door bell draws my attention, retrieving me from my fantasy. A pricking at the back of my neck tells me who this will be, and I smooth my shirt, check my cuffs, careful to keeps my traitorous face from betraying me as I open the door. She looks around, uncomfortable, and I know she is trying to play the game – I recognize all the signs. But she is too late, far too late, so far behind the current set of moves, practically prehistoric in her understanding of the landscape. Just how far outmaneuvered she is, I know is well beyond her grasp.

"Whatever this is between us needs to end," she says and I see her olive branch for what it is – a ploy to trick me, convince me of her harmlessness. She is breathing heavily, her words coming in fits, like she has run a marathon, or taken a new lover, and I wonder whether she knows the game is ending, falling down around our ears, with her as the figurehead of the losing side. Her moves have been mapped out ahead of her long ago, and she has no idea who wrote the lines she is speaking now.

"I'm leaving town," she says. It throws me, off balance, unexpected. More than a play, then, a concerted effort to finish the game. I might have respected her, had she left it there, had she declared herself and left. The will and the strength to change to game, to simply step back and stop playing, is rare enough, I know. But then, inevitably, come the stipulations – the evidence she's nothing more than a pawn in a game she doesn't accept exists, and pawns are always outclassed by queens, evil or not.

As with Jefferson, it's almost too easy, the victory not hard enough won. A streak of jealous flair – my son – not faked, is all it takes to convince her, make her believe I accept her terms, grudgingly. She looks suspicious, for a moment, of my apparent about turn. But, you see, that's the thing about 'good' people, even when the goodness is as patchy as hers – they never expect the rules to be broken.

She looks at me, slowly, her eyes flicking from the pastry to my face, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat. I want to imagine her as she bites into it, I want to imagine the pain and writhing agony in the moments before she slips into the death-sleep, but I find I cannot. Instead I see her as she was, rescuing Henry from the mine, face smudged with dirt, standing on my doorstep for the first time, imagine her stood lonely, blowing out a solitary cupcake candle. An innocent, I think. That's all she really is. Under the hype and the prophecy and her unfortunate lineage, she's just a girl who stumbled into the wrong town and didn't leave. I might feel sorry for her, had I not been an innocent myself once. I smile brightly at her as she leaves, content in the knowledge I will never see her again.

Once she has left, I turn my back to the door, allow myself to laugh. I feel euphoric, close my eyes, tilt back my head, and revel in my victory. Soon I will go to Gold, gloat, tease him with the truth of my victory, but now I stand in my house, in the land I created and run, more than proud of my achievements.

My exultation is broken by the sound of returning footsteps. It is Emma, her face contorted not with pain but with anger, a lifeless bird clutched in her hand. She shakes it in my face, uncaring of its germ and parasite burden.

"I trusted you," she says, "for once I trusted you and look what fucking happened." She shakes the bird again, a blue feather floating to the floor. "I threw it part of your turnover – being nice – and it just keeled over and died." She throws the body at me, aiming right for my face, and I barely manage to duck in time. She has her fists wrapped tight in my shirt, pushing me back against the counter, her stupid face scared and betrayed and angry. I know the look well, have seen it in the mirror more times than I can count. Its small comfort, I think, to know that as my plans fall through, Snow White's precious daughter is more like me than can be imagined.

"What have I ever done to you?" she asks, and I have to laugh. To honestly, truly laugh. It's the rallying cry of the downtrodden masses, those still naive enough to think life ought to be fair. She looks taken aback by my mirth, and for a second I think her grip loosens, before tightening again.

"It's not you, Miss Swan," I say, gesturing airily with one hand, "this is just – old business." Her jaw tightens, sets, and I see that all this time she had really thought that this was in some way personal, that it really was all about her. I laugh again, and her face changes, and I know that suddenly she believes in the curse, in my son's fairy tale books, in the terrible and unchanging nature of the Evil Queen. There is pounding at the door, and I know that she is not the only one to suddenly understand, that all over Storybrooke people are remembering, waking up, and have come for my blood.


	2. Chapter 2

The pounding at the door grows louder, stronger, and I know that it is only a matter of minutes before the wood cracks and splinters, gives way under the force of their rage. Emma hears it too, her face relieved and not a bit scared. She's so far out of her depth, and now she knows it. Her hands wraps tighter around the fabric of my shirt, as the other searches for her handcuffs. No. When they come, I will not face the residents of this place in chains. Placing all my strength behind the move, I bring my hands to her chest, place them flat over warm, pliant flesh, and push.

She stumbles backwards, unprepared for a frontal assault, and trips over her own feet, heel catching on toe, and over she goes, head thumping on the corner of the worksurface as she falls. She brings her hand to her head, and it comes away red with blood.

"Mom? Emma?" a voice says from the doorway, and we both turn, faces stricken. "What are you doing?" Henry's voice is accusing, his gaze fixed firmly on me. I wonder whether he ever really loved me, whether somehow implanted in his make-up was his family's hatred, the bad blood between us spilling out, running over, impossible to contain. The noise at the door grows ever louder, individual shouts and screams now clearly distinguishable. I look back at my son, and he is my son, regardless of genetics, and see how frightened he is behind the mask of anger.

I pull Emma upwards, holding her by the shoulders, steadying her, as she sways on her feet, dizzy still from the blow to the head. Her face is pale, her hair matting with the blood. I look her in the eyes, willing her to focus, to understand.

"Take Henry," I say, "and go. Far away. Just get him out of here." Don't let him see, I think I could not survive if my dream really came true, if my son stood calmly by at my execution. Besides, to win this battle, I can brook no distraction, no weakening ties of affection – I must be strong and driven, ruthless to the end. She needs no further persuasion, but turns from me, the dead bird still at our feet, takes Henry's hand and pulls him towards the garden door. I watch her as she leaves, my eyes locked on Henry's until they are out of sight. Emma does not look back. She does the only thing she has ever done well – she runs, and takes my son with her.

I can hear Henry screaming my name, not in anger or hatred, but in pure honest fear. When it comes down to it, it seems, my son would still like to need me. I block out the noise of their retreat, smooth the front of my shirt where her fists had creased it, check my hair is in place, and move to the door. I pause for a second, take a deep breath, and open the door, as serenely as I can, a smile firmly in place.

"Mary Margaret, David," I say, as if they were alone, not flanked in all directions by people with burning branches and pitchforks. It's been so long since I faced a proper witchhunt, and the sight fuels my will to win. Not one of you, I think, wants this like I do. "What can I do for you?"

They stand, open mouthed, the angry mob turned, if just for a while. Enough of the curse still lingers, it seems, for a sliver of doubt to still remain in their hearts. This is to my advantage, a tool to be used, one of many options I see spread before me. I step out, into the crowd, who part, uneasily. I stand in the centre of my lawn, hands raised in question. "People of Storybrooke," I shout, making sure my unsteady voice is heard by all, "what have you come to your Mayor for? What brings you to my door with murder in your hearts? Go home, and sleep, and tomorrow all of this will be as if a bad dream." It wouldn't, of course, but it will buy me time. Time enough to properly plan, to come up with a winning strategy. The crowd is muttering now, each turning to their neighbour, gauging opinion. The ordinary, steadfast Maine citizen in every one of them baulks at the thought of cold-blooded slaughter, and I had counted on this. Love makes you weak, whether for a child or a lover, or whether for mankind in general, or even just for yourself. A voice rings out, high and clear above the mutterings.

"It's a witch's trick," it shrieks, "Don't let her deceive you again!" Rumplestiltskin, ever the enemy, even when he's a friend. The cane has been abandoned now, and although he still looks like Gold, he is hopping from foot to foot, mannerisms reverting fast.

His meddling works, for the crowd again turn to me, and slowly begin to advance. I hold my hands in an old casting stance, and they pause momentarily, uncertain and afraid. "You have no power her, witch!" someone cries, and the crowd begin to advance again, torches and weapons held high. It is the work of mere minutes to tie me to a tree in the centre of town, my dream actualized in front of me. I can see, on the edge of the crowd, Gold smiling, laughing and jumping with glee, but my attention is quickly drawn back to Mary Margaret, Snow White I suppose now, who is facing the crowd, rallying them behind her banner.

"This woman," she shouts, raising her voice far above anything I have heard from her in this world, "this witch has stolen our lives, ripped our happy endings from us." Her words are impassioned, and the feeling infects and inflames the crowd, a kind of magic she has always possessed, in either world. "This is more than just breaking a curse. Each and every one of us has a score to settle with Regina – her selfish evil must be punished!"

I know now that I have lost, my carefully laid plans slipping through my fingers like so much salt. Yet I cannot just allow myself to give up, give in, to surrender so easily.

"Kill me, then, Snow White. But know this, it's not my death you need to send you home. You'll need to sacrifice the thing you love the most." I let my sentence trail off, threateningly. It works, it seems, and I remember how it felt to how magic pulsing in my veins, how the cold lightning cracked around my fingers. I remember the way I would think something and it would happen, the way I could create or destroy anything. If we were in our previous lives, I could think these bindings away in a heartbeat. I feel the ties on my wrists and waist slip slightly, loosen, and I glance down.

My lack of concentration, it seems, allows the mob to dismiss my threat. From somewhere, Gold's shop, no doubt, David has procured a long, glittering sword and is holding it aloft. I have seen this before, in my dream, I know how this ends. I scan the crowd, anxiously, but can see no trace of my son, or of any salvation. Why I expected any, I don't know – only the good deserve miracles or compassion. Evil is always self-reliant, always alone.

Snow White is still shouting, riling up the people into a frenzy. She is pointing and gesturing fiercely, a true leader, her command and authority effortless. David moves towards me now, sword outstretched. I have read the fairytales, I know how wicked witches end, unmourned and ill-remembered, left in a puddle on the floor, moved only by the rain and elements. I do not want to see my sharp end approach, cannot bear to see the smug satisfaction on Gold's face, the outright hatred of the girl whose life I saved, so long ago. I close my eyes, lean my back against the tree, and wait.

I want to focus on Daniel, to see his face one last time, to remember, if I can how it felt to be happy. I try to bring him to mind, but all I can see behind my lids, tormented even in my last moments, is Emma Swan's damn face as she realised who I really was. Damn her, I think, and try to imagine instead my son. I picture him as I first had him, small and warm, the way his face had looked at me and smiled, his eyes creasing as babies' do. I think, too, of his future, of how with Emma he will surely now have his best shot, a prince in the new world, just as he had been in mine. The picture of the two of them together galls me, brings bile to my throat, and I think how many things I never had a chance to tell him, how many things she needs to know to be a real mother.

I feel David move closer, changes in the air currents alerting me, and I raise my chin, defiant still. I will not plead, or beg.

"Stop!"

Her cry rings out across the town, and the world around us seems to shake. The anticipated blow does not descend, and I open my eyes. I look around and I see Emma Swan stood in between me and her father, hand outstretched. The crowd seem to be frozen, all motions stopped. I've seen things like this before – Maleficent had a particular penchant for it – it's not shock, or surprise, or an unwillingness to cut down the saviour, but magic, powerful magic, and I wonder whether Emma knows what she's done. The crowd begins to move again, the pause so slight she seems not to have seen it, but I did. Judging by the thunderous look that has crept over Gold's features, he did too.

"Emma," Snow says, her voice low and firm, "move out of the way." But Emma Swan, the White Knight of my son's book, remains between evil and its fate. She shakes her head, and I suddenly see the iron underneath that soft exterior, and wonder how I had never seen it before. A child, born from true love, raised in this unloving alien world, a survivor, her own saviour, a force for good, weighed down by her own flaws but not overcome by them. In another world, another time, I could have liked her, I suddenly know.

"If you do this," she says, "you're no better than she is. It was actions like this that took her happy endings – don't let them take yours as well." The Sherriff's badge glints on her belt, and I see her fingers clench reflexively around its edges, a solid symbol of the morals she advocates, something real to clutch to when she needs strength. Where was this Emma Swan, I wonder, strong and durable, during all the time we sparred and spat at each other; such a woman would have been a worthy opponent, one capable perhaps of defeating even the Evil Queen.

She turns her back on the crowd, dismissing them as surely my cutting lines ever could. Not one moves to stop her as she removes the rope that secures me to the tree, places me in handcuffs and pushes me, roughly, in the direction of the Sherriff's office. The crowd parts, in fact, to let us through, and no-one makes a sound. No insults are flung, no protests issued, and I can see that they are all awed by her presence, her sudden force of personality. The sun glints harshly off her blonde hair, blinding to look at, a corona of light surrounding her.

When we reach the cells, a door standing open, waiting for me, she unlocks the cuffs and slams the door shut, locking it tightly and pocketing the key. She cannot look at me, the woman whose life she saved, but neither does she move away, staring down at the floor and her boots. I move towards the bars, but she does not flinch or step away. I hold the bars in my hands, look at her, willing her to look at me. "Henry," I rasp, and then she does raise her head, stare me straight in the eyes, face an emotionless mask.

"Safe," she answers. There is noise outside the building now, the mob reforming, no doubt pricked and encouraged by Rumpelstiltskin into a new mass hysteria, one still baying for my blood. "And so will you be, while I'm in charge."

She drops her gaze, sets her jaw, and exits the building to once again confront the mob.

xxx


	3. Chapter 3

The noise from outside grows in volume, and I wonder what Sherriff Swan is saying, how she thinks she can turn the tide of anger, recrimination and ingrained, undeniable hurt with just a tacky badge and a few, well placed words. Her little display of power had been interesting – but that's all it was. It takes years of practice, sacrifice and self-awarenesss to forge even the greatest raw talent into something usable. I pace in my cell, considering my next move. A 'saviour' leaking uncontrolled magic at such a delicate time was unpredictable at best, and most likely downright dangerous, especially if she felt in any way threatened.

I flex my own wrists, trying to ease magic back into my fingers. I had felt the ropes shift and slip earlier, and now, as I stare at my hand, I believe I can see the faintest of blue outlines dancing around my fingertips. I think of the hatter, and how I had to guide the hat. Perhaps it hadn't been the magic of the ring, the magic of age-old love, at all, but my own inherent powers returning. I need a target, something to test my theories on, and scan the untidy room for a likely object. On her desk, balanced on a stack of paperwork, weeks old no doubt, stands Emma's discarded coffee cup. If she had truly planned to leave, she didn't do a very good job of tidying up after herself. I snort, unsurprised, and bring my focus back to the task in hand.

I take careful aim and flick my fingers, imagining a shockwave leaving them, flying through the room and impacting the cup. It rocks, slightly, but nothing more. Frowning, I try again, my motions more exaggerated, eyes focused more firmly, brows knitting together in concentration, and this time the cup falls to the floor with a satisfying crack, congealed coffee seeping slowly into the carpet. Interesting, I think, looking again at my hands, and decide to keep my new-found restoration a secret, for a while, at least. I must pretend, I think, to have no power. I must convince them I'm weakened, in no state to fight, repentant and in need of forgiveness. I must act, to the best of my ability, a frightened and lonely woman, concerned only for her son. I saw, in the street, how their Storybrooke sojourn has weakened their convictions, left them doubtful and indecisive. I never knew, before I brought us to this place, how well this world's infinite reliance on shades of grey would suit me, how a reality full of moral complexities and the eternal promise of redemption would slowly infect our black and white views, changing and confusing our once simple lives. Playing to their sympathies is the only way to survive this long enough to –

The sound of the door opening distracts me from my thoughts and I quickly extinguish the light around my hand. I expect it to be Emma, the woman destined to destroy me and mine, and yet, almost inconceivably, also the woman who had saved me from her own mother's wrath. Well, there are more than one way to play on a person's sympathies, and I fix my face into my most seductive smile, eyes half-lidded, chin pulled down, gazing at the entrance through my lashes. The damsel in distress is always grateful to her rescuer, always willing to fall at their feet, and I will be no different. The expression evaporates as I see who it actually is coming through the door.

"Gold," I hiss, hands gripping the bars tight, my knuckles whitening. I wonder, for a moment, how he is left unscathed by the return of memory, why he, too, is not locked up in the adjoining cell, hopping and squealing about, or tied to a tree somewhere. He crosses the office, light on his feet, all traces of the limp vanished now, and stands there, smirking at me.

"Your Majesty," he says gleefully, hands gesturing around him, "how the mighty are fallen." My fist clenches, and I imagine him falling, choking, hands clutching uselessly at his throat, clawing for air as his lungs are squeezed, vision going hazy as he falls to his knees in front of me, face purpling. "That's not very nice, dearie," he says, hand coming up to his throat, mocking me. "I suppose I should feel relieved Miss Swan seems to have the only magic here abouts."

I drop my fist, raise my chin and look at him, defiant. "You saw that then," he continues, "the good Sherriff's little display. Just a shame your old reliable solution to your little problem wasn't so reliable." He reaches suddenly through the bars, hand catching my neck, fingers squeezing, nails digging in painfully behind my jaw. He brings my face closer to his, and his fetid breath washes over me, warm and rank. I struggle against his hold, hands pushing at him futilely , but the strength in his arm is surprising and I swallow, briefly closing my eyes, and sag slightly in his grip.

"Tell me what you want," I say, false resignation lacing my voice. Everybody has a weakness, and his is arrogance. Let him think he's won, and then, as he basks in his victory, revelling in his own cleverness, that's the moment to plunge a dagger deep into his blackened heart. He seems to consider, a small sly smile playing over his features.

"I want you to leave!"

It's not Gold's voice, it's hers. The hold on my neck loosens, and Gold turns to face the Sherriff, who is stood in the doorway flanked by half a dozen residents, faces still inflamed with anger. He tilts his head, moves towards her, hand outstretched. "My congratulations, dearie," he says, "you were even better in defeating this evil witch than I ever imagined." His voice is oily, ingratiating, and he stands, the image of friendliness, waiting for her to take his hand. She doesn't. She points to the door, arm outstretched, face a carefully controlled mask.

"Leave, Rumpelstiltskin," she says, emphasizing his name. She's read her fairytales, I think, believes that his name has power. The faces behind her too, are grave, serious, watching him tightly. He smiles at her, unmoved and unmoving, hand still outstretched. "Or is it Tom Tit Tot? Or Whuppity Stoorie? Or even, perhaps, _Rumpelstilzchen_?" The last name seems just like the first, but with an accent, a heavy roll on the 'r'. His face pales, hand dropping slightly, and she advances. "You see, with a son like mine, it's wise to do your homework." She is close now, leaning forward, face to face, invading his space as I have invaded hers, time and again. "Leave," she repeats, raising one eyebrow high into her hairline, "please." A shiver of fear and recognition runs down my spine, and it seems to have the same effect on its intended target, for the little man runs off into the night. She pulls back, a pleased little smile on her face, but the shutters fall quickly back in place as she turns to me. As group, Emma and her followers step across the office, nearing my cell. I make no move, forward or back, fight the urge to smooth down my clothes, each a sign of weakness I can ill afford.

"Sherriff Swan," I say brightly, falling back on the persona of the small town mayor. "So tell me, what happens next?" I allow a small quiver to edge into my voice. Look at her, I want them to think, putting on a brave face, trying to brazen it out, when inside, she's as scared as the rest of us. I make as if to bite my lip, stopping as though I think better of it. "I've never been in jail before." My voice now is small, unsure, and Emma takes a half-step forward, remembering, no-doubt, her own incarceration, those first few hours behind bars, afraid and uncertain, waiting anxiously to see what the future would bring. Even now, with this new hardness to her, Emma is still mouldable, it seems, and I fight to keep my relief from showing.

"Liar," hisses Snow White, and Emma's progress towards me stops. She looks back at her mother, eyes questioning. She looks back at me, demanding the truth.

"I haven't," I repeat, hands spread wide in front of me, the motion honest and open. "I've been a prisoner, in a dungeon. But never in a jail." I keep my eyes open wide, causing them to fill with moisture. I am Regina Mills, hardworking mayor of this small country town, a woman racked by the sins of her past, trying desperately to make up. I want to sell to them all the idea of my redemption, the idea that my love for my son in this world can erase all the bad I did in the other.

"Look, Regina," Snow says, "no tricks. Just tell us how to finish this curse." Her voice is harsh, untrusting, and I know that she would quite happily see me dead, regardless of her daughter's feelings on the matter. After all I've done to her, to her true love and her child, the pure hatred in her voice still hurts. I sigh, allow my shoulders to droop, and sit heavily on the bed. I lean my arms on my knees, lace the fingers of each hand through those of the other, hang my head. I am left, it seems, with no choice but to tell the truth, and co-operating now might win me leniency later.

"To go back, and I assume that's what you want to do, you have two options. The first is that Emma Swan has to find true love's kiss. The second is that she dies." My pronouncement draws sharp intakes of breath, and both Snow White and James turn to Emma, hope and fear and love all mixed up on their faces. Emma looks at each in turn, eyes barely grazing in my direction before moving on. They stop on her mother, and she swallows, and nods. I know what she's going to say, know which option she's considering choosing, and so too does Snow White, it seems, worry writ clear across her brow.

"Emma," she says, calm and comforting, "have you no idea who your true love might be?" She smiles, kindly, encouragingly, at her daughter, hoping that Emma will reveal some new, hither-to unknown romance, capable of saving us all. Emma shakes her head.

"There's no-one," she says, and I am surprised at how little bitterness laces her tone. "There never has been." She pauses, and then looks straight up at me, our eyes locking, and a look of understanding passes between us. I stand, approach the bars, and lean my forehead against them, one hand loosely curling in the pocket of my trousers. "Which, I guess, means we're left with the second option."

"It's not true," says Granny to the others, her eyes murderous in her otherwise kindly face. "It's another lie. Just Emma's presence here was enough to bring back our memories." The others murmur their agreement, staring distrustfully at me through the bars. Before I can react, James has the blade pressed again to my throat, my pulse jumping fitfully under the sharp edge.

"Tell the truth, Regina," he snarls. I say nothing – there is nothing to say, and he presses harder, hard enough to draw a thin line of blood from my throat. I feel it work its way down my neck, pooling into my collar, staining the white shirt red.

"Drop the sword," his daughter orders, hand back on the badge at her hips. Her voice is firm, controlling, as it was when she addressed the crowd, when she spoke to Gold, and her father cannot help but comply. "She's not lying." They look at her, aghast, mouths hanging open, unwilling or unable to believe that their white knight would once again defend the evil queen. "My superpower, remember?" She laughs, mirthlessly, and the sound echoes hollowly around the dingy office. If only she had a castle in which to perform, I think, what a villain she would make.

"Kiss her," says a voice from the very back of the room, and everybody turns. It is my son, her son, stood in the doorway, backlight by flickering torch light, clutching that fairytale book to himself. Damn Gold and his ridiculous shop, having such an item lying about for meddling school teachers to buy. Damn Gold for creating this curse, damn him for providing me with the one child who could never truly love me back. I know where he is going, what he believes will break the spell. As the sheriff said, with a son like mine, it pays to do your homework.

"Kiss my mom," he repeats, pointing now at me. "That's how stories work. Good can't defeat evil on evil's own terms. It has to win through love." The group of adults look comically surprised, both at his presence in the office, and at his suggestion. Emma shakes her head, begins to move towards him, when finally Red Riding Hood speaks.

"He might have a point, Emma," she says, dipping her head to catch the other woman in the eye. She places her hand on Emma's arm, squeezes lightly. "Hey," she says, smiling now, "we know it's not me." We know it's not me. The sentence could be taken as a joke, but I am adept at reading these people, and her words are laced with sadness and regret. Interesting, certainly. Of use? Probably not. "You'll never forgive yourself if you don't try." I snort inwardly, forgiving oneself is hard when you're dead, but manage to school my features into blank neutrality. She can kiss me all she likes, but all the adults here know that my love died long before any curse, and I say so, clearly, mocking. My son shoots me an admonishing look, and I can merely look back, regrettably pleased he does not break my gaze.

"I am not kissing her," Emma exclaims, pulling sharply back from the other woman. She retreats, holding up her hands as if to defend herself from physical blows. She leans against the wall, and suddenly all her command and authority are gone, evaporated in the wind. How much this is taking out of her is plain for all to see. Emma Swan, the inveterate sceptic, faced with the fate of a nation and the possibility of fairytale love with an evil, magical, Queen.

"Please, Emma," Henry says, eyes large and pleading. I could never resist that look, buying video games and junk food, ignoring every rule I'd ever laid down, and neither, it seems, can she. She crosses the room, refusing to look any of us in the eye, and slowly unlocks the door to my cell.

Xxx


	4. Chapter 4

She locks herself in, passing the key through the bars to her father. She may be humouring their wild imaginings, but she is taking no chances with their safety, or with mine. I stand, waiting, as she comes nearer. She places her hands on my chest, mimicking my own moves earlier, and pushes. I stumble back, falling against the wall, a small grunt slipping out of me as the wind is knocked from my lungs.

Her face is next to mine now, one hand on my cheek, other firmly grasping the waistband of my trousers, keeping me effectively in place. Her lips meet mine, firm and demanding. She bites my lip, pressing body flat against mine, and my hands come up to tangle in her hair as my eyes slip involuntarily closed. The hard edge of the badge digs into me as she pushes herself closer, feet now overlapping, and despite myself I hear a moan escape my throat. She pulls away, my body following close behind, unwilling to lose contact, breathing hard, our hands still in place, and she stares at me. She waits, as if expecting to be suddenly, magically pulled into another realm. When nothing happens, she steps back, the rush of cold air suddenly between us making me shiver. Suddenly self-conscious, she moves away, motioning for her father to let her out. I stand, still leaning against the wall, stunned by the force of the kiss.

"See," she says, her tone angry now. "I told you."

I am unaware of anything outside my cell, the low hum of their voices unable to penetrate the fog that suddenly clouds my thoughts. I had never imagined a kiss like that, and unconsciously bring my hand to my lips, hovering over their surface, skin still buzzing with feeling. I feel a crackle and a snap, and a small spark jumps from my lips to my hand. Not, I notice, from my hand to my lips. It's not my magic leaping from place to place, but hers, elemental and wild, it remnants lingering on me, dissipating with every passing heartbeat.

All pretence is stripped away, and I am left with just myself. I give no thought to how I must seem, still in the position she left me. When I look up, the others are gone, and she is staring at me, frowning, leaning on her desk, arms and legs crossed. I let out a shaky breath, and try to disguise it by pushing myself roughly away from the wall, straightening my shirt collar and cuffs. Where the blood has dried the collar sticks to my neck, and I wince as the newly formed scab is broken, and begins to bleed again.

I find I do not want to meet her gaze, my eyes staying firmly trained on the floor beneath my feet. I sit on the bed, kick off my shoes, now tight and pinching, and see through the windows that it is dark outside. I have been in this cell for almost a whole day. The temperature has dropped, and I shiver, my thin blouse providing little comfort against the cold.

"Here," she says, arm reaching through the bars, hand clenching a jumper. Green, woollen, I know that it is Graham's. "Take it!" she says, throwing it at me, "Or can't you wear the clothes of the man you murdered?" I make no reply, but pull the jumper over my head, sighing softly at the immediate warmth it provides. The smell, however, is not the huntsman's. I know that smell well, having woken to it marring my sheets many mornings in this place. This smell is light, fragrant, and I know it too. It is the smell of Emma, and I imagine her wearing his jumper, curled into a ball against her own grief, against the injustice of a life cut short. The image is less than pleasing than I thought it would be, the smell still curling around my insides, squeezing my eyes closed, blocking out my memory.

She is still watching me, eyes a heavy weight on my face, an almost physical sensation, a feather-light touch, tracing the patterns of my profile. As I glance up at her, she looks away, and stands up, eyes not quite meeting mine. "I'm sure you're hungry," she says. "I'm going to get some food." She pauses, halfway out of the door, and cannot resist one last barb. "Don't worry – it won't be poisoned."

She leaves me alone in the cell, wrapped tightly in the dead man's clothes, protected from the world I created only a locked door and some iron bars. I try to plan, to see a way out of my current predicament, but nothing comes to mind. I am out of ideas, of drive, of will and wanting to succeed. I imagine my box, the one with all my anger and hate locked safely inside. I imagine taking it, unlocking it, slowly opening the lid. As I peer inside, I find nothing. The box is empty, with no sign of anything I had stored in it. I test my magic, try to move my discarded shoe, focusing the memory of rage down into my fingertips and beyond, but nothing happens. The shoe, laying carelessly on the floor, remains motionless. Even my magic, it seems, has been stripped from me. The kiss, it seems, drew my power, my rage, my hatred, the very cornerstones of my being, and discarded them. I allow, in my defeat, the memory of the kiss to wash over me, so that I might understand how thoroughly I am undone.

My shoe, unexpectedly, moves beneath me. I look at it again, four feet now from where it started. I look around, expecting someone else. I try again to move it, imagining, this time, not the death or suffering of my enemies, but remembering instead. The shoe flies into the air, hovers for a few seconds, and then I guide it down gently to meet its mate. Interesting, I think.

There is still no sign of Emma, and so I dare to try something larger. Standing, I move toward the cell door, focus on the kiss, and rotate my hand. The lock slides back, and the door falls open. I move out, into the office, and look at the door. It would be so easy, I think, to escape. I move towards the door, unlock it, and stand, hand resting on the door handle, nothing standing between me and the outside world. I hesitate – where would I go? I cannot leave Storybrooke, and I would not leave my son. I do not understand this new source of magic, and cannot trust it against a baying mob. I pull back, retreating from the door. I move back into my cell and lock the door behind me. I am biding my time, I tell myself, waiting until the right opportunity comes along. Then, when I am rested and more certain, I will find my son, who I know will come with me, and we will leave this pathetic town far behind us, memories falling at the wayside with every passing mile.

The door to the office opens, and Emma returns, frowning. I forgot to lock the door behind me, and it confuses her. She is carrying a large pizza box, and I am surprised that the shops are still open, when now the truth is revealed. She must see the unspoken question on my face, for she answers. "I got Michael to open up," she says, shrugging. "They'll do anything for the saviour." The word is sarcastic, over-emphasized, and I am reminded again of her stood, tired, against the wall, scepticism overcome, and know how much this is for her to take in. In another time, another world, I think, she would have been a formidable foe, and even perhaps, a friend.

She places the pizza down within reach of the bars, and begins to eat. I watch her, the ordinariness of her, as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, tomato transferring to the sleeve of her jacket. It's not graceful, or elegant, the lack of finesse and sophistication evident. But it's her, almost painfully so, and I remember what sophisticated means. It was a game we played, Henry and I, asking each other words from the dictionary, and I can see the definition still before me, clear and precise. Sophistication, worldliness, the loss of innocence. Just this morning, I had stood in my kitchen, reviling her almost for her innocence, and now, after today, I am almost praising her for it.

She motions with her head, jerks in my direction. "Aren't you going to eat any?" she asks, mouth full. I move towards the bars, reaching out for a slice, bringing it back and eating it. I am hungry, more than I had realised, and I am reaching for a second slice before the first is properly finished. She sees my hunger and smiles, laughs under her breath, and pushes the box closer to me, indicating I should eat what I want. Once the pizza is gone, we sit, awkwardly, in silence, Emma watching me, and me staring into the middle distance. We are quiet for a while, and then she speaks, her voice low and soft, the way one might speak to a fractious horse, or frightened child.

"Why?" she asks, "The curse. What happened to you?" It's been a long time since anyone had asked me that, if in fact they ever have, and my throat constricts with emotion I thought long since buried. My answer comes to slowly, for she presses again, "Regina?". My name on her lips is not an accusation or insult, as it is on her mother's, or as it has been on hers so many times past. It feels, instead, like a benediction, a release.

"When I was a girl," I start, eyes closed against the memory, "I loved someone, as only the very young can do. He was good, and kind, and innocent, and he was everything to me. But I was engaged to Snow White's father, and I knew my own mother would not let me break with him." She gasps, softly.

"You're Snow White's mother?" she asks, and I can see her the trail of her thoughts, put together the pieces as she sees them. I shake my head.

"No, her step-mother." I laugh, bitterly, remembering how the stories always go. "The evil step-mother," I say, "evil adopted mother too." She shakes her head, frowning, and I'm not sure what she disputes, whether I'm evil, or just a bad mother.

"Anyway. I told Snow of my love, and how duty required me to put him aside." I look up at her, seeing again the similarities between her and Snow, wondering how I had not seen it immediately, how I had not seen it in Henry. Love makes us blind, I suppose. "Snow was just a child, younger than Henry even, and as you know she believed, believes, in true love." I pause, waiting for the old anger to rise, consume me, make my eyes flash and my hands spark, but nothing happens, just an emptiness that settles on my heart. My voice, when I speak again, breaks in the middle, my breath hitching around the words.

"Snow believed in true love so much, she told my mother about Daniel." His name hurts to say, the first time it has passed my lips in years, the syllables hard and unforgiving in my mouth. "My mother, of course, was not to be swayed. And she killed him, right there in front of me in the stable." Emma is standing now, just the other side of the bars, looking down at me, her big eyes wide with concern and sympathy. "I knew I would never love again, and so empty was I that the only thing left for me, the only way to make it right, was to prevent Snow from having what she had stolen from me." I am openly crying now, tears rolling down my face, breath coming in heaving sobs. It is as far from the carefully cultivated image I want to present as can be, but I cannot help myself.

Through my tears, I hear the cell door clang back, and then am surrounded in the warmth of her arms, her hands soothing the hair back from my cheeks. The door is open, and yet again, I cannot bring myself to flee. It would be so easy, to push her back, knock her away, run through the door and out. Instead I let myself be held, a first for this world, and allow myself to cry tears that have waited decades to fall. We sit like that, together on the cold cell floor, for a long time.

"And that's why Henry's plan didn't work," she murmurs, almost to herself, right on the edge of hearing. "Your true love died a long time ago." She sighs into my hair, sorrowful, resigning herself to the only other option. She makes to move away, and my fingers dig into her arm, forcing her to stay. It's a shocking demonstration of weakness, of dependency, but I am at my lowest ebb. When she speaks again, her voice is small, frightened. "Do I have to die?" she asks, and I look at her.

I wish, for once, not for myself, but for her, that there was some other way. But there isn't. I shake my head, touching my hand to her cheek. "The curse is not of my design," I tell her, willing her to understand. I was the tool, not the wielder. The sword, not the guiding hand.

"Gold," she says, and I nod. He has been the architect of all of this, and I see now how easily I was used. How even as I rejoiced at bending Emma and Jefferson, and all the countless others to my will, that I was merely a pawn in his game, a bit player reciting her lines with aplomb. Her face crumples, frown drawing deep lines in her forehead, the knowledge sitting like a weight on her heart. She traces the lines of my face with her fingers, and where she touches burns, her magic lingering, sinking into my skin, invading. "You tried to kill me. I should hate you," she breathes, as her fingers trace the scar on my lip.

I look up at her, catching her hand in my own.

"You don't?" I ask. To others it might seem an odd question, half-laying in her arms as I am, but I remember how I comforted Snow, looked after her all those years, the hurt and pain and anger burning in my breast. She shakes her head. Suddenly uncomfortable, I sit up, away from her kindness.

Outside, a sudden crash distracts us, and Emma stands, notices the open door. "Here," she says, holding out the key. A swell of voices is gathering strength, chanting and calling my name. "Lock yourself in." She leaves the cell at a run, crashing through the door, the darkness outside swallowing her.

xxx


	5. Chapter 5

I look at the key in my hand, almost incredulously. Emma Swan, saviour of Storybrooke, white knight, vanquisher of the Evil Queen's curse, has left me with the key to my own cell, trusting me to remain where she left me. No matter that I have little use for the key now that my magic is returning: Emma does not know that. It is strange, and not a little worrying, that the woman who less than a full day ago I was trying, not to kill, but to incapacitate, is now perhaps the only one standing in my corner.

The noise outside is louder now, a growing torrent of voices, not one individual distinguishable. Where is Emma now, I think, where is my son.

The door to the Sherriff's office bursts open, a flood of people spilling through the entrance. The door to my cell is opened, wrenched from its hinges, and they force their way inside, roughly, grabbing at the sleeves of the jumper I wear, pulling me past the broken bars and forcing me out into the night.

The swarm carries me along, hands pushing and pulling, fingers pinching harshly at my arms and legs. Once, a fist connects soundly with the side of my face, my head rocking back with the impact, and I know my lip is split as the taste of blood fills my mouth. I swing my head about, shouting for my attacker to show themselves, to fight me on equal terms, but the perpetrator melts into the crowd, unseen. Equal terms, it seems, are not a luxury with which I will be provided. I think about Gold's words, how he had warned me the resurgence of memory would leave these people wanting blood in recompense. I think, too, of the Sheriff's parting words – lock yourself in.

I would like nothing better than to smite all these peasants with one fearsome clench of my hand. I remember, in the old days, how they cowered before me, certain in the knowledge that I would rip their hearts out of their chests without a moment's pause. Now, however, they are either braver, imagine I have no power left, or, perhaps, they no longer think me so callously evil. They remember, although they might deny it, my obvious affection for my son. Love is a weakness, and they know me now to be weak. I consider testing my magic, relocating out of the crowd – to my home, or office perhaps – somewhere I can barricade the doors, somewhere I can hide, however briefly, and gather my wits about me. I attempt a small spell, calling up the memory of casting, the feel and taste of it, the way the spell whirled through my head, releasing my will into physical form. I focus on the hat of the man in front, willing it to burst into flames. It stays on his head, inert and unburning. I feel my teeth grind together in frustration, focusing again, harder this time, but a change in direction distracts me, and I look up.

We round a corner, and suddenly I see our destination. Up ahead, in the centre of the main street, a large pyre has been built, a small platform at its centre and a tall mast rising behind it. I am to be burnt, then; a fitting end, one common to both this world and that. I struggle against the press of people, trying to fight my way out of the crowd, but their hands are relentless, keeping me trapped in the centre, moving inexorably towards the steps leading to the platform.

An uncontrolled spark of fear flies from my outstretched fingertips, blue lightning arching outwards, scorching the face of the nearest person. I cannot remember the last time magic escaped me by accident, not since was a child, at least, and the lack of control, coupled with the earlier spell's failure, is frightening. She brings her hand to her face, aghast, fingers gently probing the still smoking wound. "She tried to use magic!" the woman shrieks, and the crowd pick up pace, almost running now, sweeping me along with them, their harsh cries and scratching nails increasing in fervour and malice.

I brace my knees, straighten my legs, try to lock my body into stillness, but the push of bodies behind me move me forward. My bare feet, shoes still laying discarded on the cell floor, trip and catch on the rough asphalt. With a cry, I fall forward, my weight and momentum pushing me to the ground between the packed bodies. I hit the floor, and lie there, winded, waiting for the stampeding crowd to trample me, waiting for feet to descend on my unprotected back, dampness seeping through the woollen jumper and the thin cotton of my shirt front. Rough hands on my collar pull me upwards, breaking again the seal of dried blood on my neck. I feel the shirt seams rip under the pressure, exposing my shoulders to the cold night air.

We reach the platform steps, and I am pushed roughly up them, barely staying on my feet. I lash out at the man pressing me roughly against the mast, nails raking through the stubble covering his face, gouging into the flesh beneath. He falls back with a satisfying hiss of pain, but my hands are quickly caught and tied roughly behind my back. The dwarf I hit spits in my face, standing on his toes to increase his height. I try to duck, to bend sideways, but the bindings around my arms and waist hold me tight, and the spittle lands in my hair.

"Watch yourself, dwarf," I hiss, "spitting at me earns you your death warrant." He laughs, openly, at this, and leans forward.

"You first, sister!"

My tormentors are leaving the platform, now, and I stand alone, the entire town facing me, faces upturned in a sea of anger and hatred. I scan the crowd, just as I did before, desperately searching for Henry. A dark haired woman is pushing through the assembled mob, fighting hard to reach the front. Snow White looks up at me, and our eyes connect across the distance. Her face is grave, her short haircut only emphasizing the frown ingrained on her features. She turns, and I see David and the rest of the group from the Sherriff's office also making their way through the crowd. And there, clinging tightly to Granny's hand, eyes wide with terror, is my son.

I can someone hear screaming his name, high and frightened over the roar of the crowd, and it is a moment before I realise it is me. Henry is openly crying, book clutched tightly to his chest. I curse, damning Emma Swan. She may have saved me once, but she promised me the safety of my son, promised me that he would not witness this messy unravelling, and yet there he is, his feckless mother no where in sight.

He twists, pulls his hand from the old woman's clasp, and runs to me, slipping past those guarding the steps. His book abandoned, he throws his arms around my legs, hugging me tight.

"Henry," I say, trying to keep my voice calm and level, the way I always speak to him. "You have to go home. Don't stay here. Go home, and I will come for you." It is a promise I cannot be certain to keep, and we both know it. He shakes his head against me, tears flowing freely down his face. I repeat his name, "Henry," and he looks up at me. "I do love you," I say, voice choking, willing him to remember, "whatever you've thought, whatever other people tell you. I love you, always remember that." I have barely finished the sentence when strong hands pull him away from me. They deposit him, roughly, at the bottom of the steps. He stares at me, unmoving.

"Go!" I shout, "Run!" and with one last look, he turns and sprints down the street, ducking under outflung arms, head down, arms pumping, heading for home. I watch till my son is out of sight, then move my attention back to the crowd. They are chanting now, calling for blood. Earlier, I had dismissed them like so many cattle, vacuous, easy to control, manipulate, defeat. I stand by my assertions, even now. But just as one cow may start and shy away from your approach, so a whole herd may panic and flee, a dangerous thing.

"Wait!" It's Emma, again, stood on the platform with me, her father's sword clutched tightly in her fist. It is obvious from her stance, her grip, the way she struggles to lift it, that she hasn't the first idea how to use it, but the image is right, and it suits her. This time, there is no magic, no force of will, and the crowd continue to press forward, hearts still eager for blood. She holds the sword aloft, its blade shining brightly above her, and they pause, momentarily. "Killing the Queen will not send you home!" she cries, but her words fall on deaf ears.

"She's right," comes the voice of Rumplestiltskin, high pitched with glee. The crowd fall silent, and I remember his boast, that, even in this world, he was the more feared between us. He stands on the edge of the platform, feet flush with the edge, and I did not see him appear. "Killing the queen is just revenge. To send us home, it is Swan that must die!"

A loud roar erupts from the crowd, and suddenly, flaming branches are being thrown from all directions. Rumplestiltskn laughs, a blood-curdling sound, and leaps nimbly from the platform as the first flames spring up around us. The dry wood catches easily, and then the fire springs high around us, encasing Emma and I in a wall of flame. They must have laced the wood with accelerant, petrol maybe, this world's inherent impatience extending even to executions.

I have been expecting this, anticipating, waiting for the spark that sets the world alight. But Emma, blindly naïve and trusting Emma, had thought herself at home in this town, had believed that she meant something to these people, as they meant something to her. She falls back, surprised at their lack of loyalty, of compassion, at their immediate willingness to sacrifice her life for their own ends. It shocks her, I know, how quickly they reverted to savagery, to violent barbarism. Her gaze flickers to me, and I know she wonders, as I have before, at their speed to condemn and denounce my evil, when their own is so close to the surface.

A band of fire leaps out, licking up the sword, burning her hand, causing her to cry out, and stumble towards the edge of the platform. I know that without intervention she will fall, tip over the edge and tumble into the inferno. I can almost see her, red jacket catching almost immediately, screaming in agony as the wave of the breaking curse spreads out around her, washing over the people and buildings, sending everything back to that other world.

The binds that tie me to the post fall away, disintegrating, and I spring forward, catching her, stopping her downward motion, holding her tight against my chest, faces just inches apart. I think, almost involuntarily, that this is the second time today we have stood pressed against one another, and then we are stood, coughing, gasping, clinging tightly together in the silent hallway of my house, tendrils of purple smoke drifting in the air around us.

Xxxx


	6. Chapter 6

We stand, for a moment, unmoving, both of us breathing hard, arms wrapped around the other for support.

"You saved me," she breathes in my ear, seemingly awe-struck. I catch sight of us in the mirror, a smoky disreputable pair, covered in blood and dirt, hair wild and expressions wilder. I move away, pull back, putting breathing space between the two of us. She follows, body moving instinctually, and I place my hands on her shoulders to stop her.

"We're safe, for now, Miss Swan," I say, and wince at the flinch her surname brings. "But we need to act fast – we have limited time before they begin to wonder why Storybrooke hasn't faded away."

She stands, vacant, and I know her mind is still reliving the fire, and the betrayal of her friends. I would like to be sympathetic. I would like, for once, to take the time to calm and soothe, but there is no time for such sentimentality. Taking her by the hand, I pull her up the stairs towards the bathroom. Although the house is dark and silent, I resist the temptation to turn on the lights, knowing lighted windows would attract attention faster.

I open the door to my bedroom and pull her inside, letting go of her hand to rummage through the wardrobe for clean clothes for the both of us. Realising my intent, she heads to the shower room and I hear the water turn on. I find a shirt and some trousers I think will do for her, and although I am sure she will complain at their formality, they are all I have. The door to the bathroom is open, steam creeping out through the cracks, and I go in, placing the clean clothes on the stool beside the shower, taking a towel from the door and hanging it over the back.

As I turn to leave, a hand reaches out from behind the curtain, and tugs me into the shower. She pulls the curtain closed again behind me, water spraying in our faces, stinging as it washes over my cuts and grazes. Gently, she begins to unbutton the tattered remains of my shirt, pushing it over my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. My belt quickly follows, dropped unceremoniously to our feet. In other circumstances I would complain, protest, but she is already working on the buttons of my trousers, and it occurs to me that the cost of clothing is almost irrelevant now. When we are both naked, stood together under the rushing water, still unspeaking, she rubs shampoo through my hair, rinsing it carefully away from my eyes. She takes the soap in her hand, and tenderly washes away the dirt of the smoke and fire; her face serious as though she could wash away the hurt and hatred as well.

Her hands trace the lines of my face, the curve of my neck, trailing down my collar bones and over the curve of my breasts. They glide down my stomach, round my sides and up my back, coming together at my shoulders to pull me forward.

The kiss, this time, is soft and slow, unhurried, our lips sliding over one another. I let my hands encircle her waist, stroking the smooth wet skin of her back. She moans into my mouth, and her hands move, one up into my hair, keeping me in place, the other resting briefly on my hip before continuing its descent.

Her fingers slide between my legs, and I know the wetness they encounter is not just from the shower. She smiles against my lips, pleased with her find, kissing me harder, as her hand sweeps the length of me, swirling in circles at the top, pressing and pulling. Her motions are practiced, precise, no stranger to a woman's pleasure. I think, a tide of bile rising in my throat, of Ruby, and her sly comment about true love's kiss. The image does not hold me long, as Emma's fingers have moved lower, insistently pressing, and her mouth has moved to focus on my neck, high behind my jaw, and I find rational, coherent thought eludes me.

A breathy gasp escapes me as her fingers press inside, curling on the downward trip, raking against the walls, making my legs quiver and my stomach tighten. Her hand takes up a careful rhythm, matched by the press of her thumb, and the motions of her mouth against my breasts.

She calls my name, softly, breathless and catching, and that is all it takes for me to come undone, clenching around her hand, fingers clutching at her shoulders. She crushes her mouth to mine, holding me up as I struggle to stand against the onslaught of my orgasm. As the sensations ebb away I move my own hand, trailing it down her back, nails scratching lightly at the skin. Before it slides between her legs, into the thatch of blonde, she catches my wrist, stopping its movement, head cocked, listening.

After a moment, I hear it too, a shuffling sound in the outer room. Footsteps, in my bedroom. She steps, quietly, out of the shower, motioning for me to be silent. She pulls on the clothes I laid out carelessly, the shirt clinging revealingly to her wet skin, and opens the door.

"Henry!" she cries, suddenly moving forward out of view, and I hear the sounds of my son leaping into her arms. Wrapping the towel around myself, I, too, leave the shower.

My son's face snaps round to see me, and he pulls himself out of her embrace and runs to me, throwing himself into my open arms. He looks between us, clearly wondering about our matching states of undress, but does not comment.

"I love you too, Mom," he says, face suddenly serious. "Even if you are the Evil Queen." He looks away, blushing, and I smile at him, heart filled by the simple admission. Emma's voice breaks my reverie, and I look up to see her staring out of the window.

"Regina, what is that?" Standing, Henry still in my arms, I cross the room to stand behind her. In the distance, rolling towards us, gathering size and speed, is a large cloud of purple smoke.

"Something bad," I answer, and can feel the smile stretching across my face.

xxx


	7. Chapter 7

The cloud rolls towards us, obscuring our view of the town. As it flows over the edge of the garden Emma braces herself, waiting for the impact. Henry buries his head in my shoulder, and I feel him hold his breath. I alone stand unmoved, as the cloud presses itself against our windows and a rushing wind fills the room. Hot and dry on my face, it carries with it the smell of flames, sulphur. A keening cry fills the air, a scream of rage and pain, a sound entirely inhuman, and as we watch, a large black shape rises in the distance. I put my son down, feeling the air around us crack and thicken with magic not of my, or Emma's, making, and it occurs to me that an angry mob will shortly be the least of our worries.

"Emma, take Henry and help him pack – warm clothes, a blanket, water bottles, what food you can find. Be quick – we haven't much time before it gets here, and it can't find either of you."

She looks at me, open mouthed, frozen in place. I can see the questions racing across her eyes, and know that, at some point, she will need answers. Right now, however, is not the time to play nursemaid; I need to prepare for what will come next.

"What is it?" she repeats, as another cry fills the air, this one indescribably triumphant, the discordant notes sending chills down my spine and goosebumps running my arms. An old friend, I think, and an ally to the Evil Queen, but not to the White Knight or her son.

"A dragon," I tell her. Henry's head comes up to stare at me, and his eyes light up with questions. Emma, by contrast, looks terrified, and I remember again how unbelievable this must all be for her, now that her ordinary, pedestrian world is crumbling at the seams.

She takes his hand, and pulls Henry from the room. I dress, quickly, pulling on the most practical and solid of my clothes, although they seem woefully inadequate for the battles to come. My hair, as I towel it dry, refuses to lie flat, but stands straight up, and I know that it is a sign of my returning magic. The reflection in the mirror now looks less like Mayor Mills, pillar of the community, and more like the Evil Queen of legend. I smirk to myself, not dissatisfied with the transformation, and fix my hair as best I can with spray and pins. As I turn to leave, however, it begins to fall forward and, without thinking, a wave of my wrist has it magically set in place. Interesting, I think, feeling my powers returning ever stronger.

Down the corridor, the door to Henry's room stands ajar and as I approach I catch the tail end of their conversation.

"You tried it twice?" The emphasis on the last word lets me know immediately what they are discussing, and, motion stopped, I hover outside, hesitating, listening to their low voices. When I was young, my father told me, eavesdroppers would suffer the listener's fate – that they would hear something bad about themselves – but my need to know has always outweighed that fear. Besides, I don't need to eavesdrop to hear the hurtful, hateful things people say; most often they are said straight to me, spat in my face.

"But why didn't it work?"

"Simple, she's not your true love."

"No, I guess not." Her voice seems sad, disappointed, although I know it is not, and I remember the way she stood after our kiss, waiting. Perhaps, I think, it had a similar impact on her, unsettling, disturbing, a heartfelt paradigm shift. "Why did you think she might be though?"

"That's how stories go! You know, the big bad villain saved 'cos they're so in love." I smile, and snort under my breath. The imagination that boy has certainly did not come from me.

"Well then, what about you? We know I love you." My heart constricts in my chest, knowing that he feels the same for her. Henry laughs.

"I'm your son," he says. "That's a different kind of love. When did you ever hear of the story's hero falling in love with their own child?" He is scoffing, mocking her suggestion, and in his disdain he sounds more like me than I had ever realised. I open the door fully, seeing them perched on his bed, two full rucksacks by their feet, Henry's book open in front of them. How, I wonder, did it get here? I could have sworn it was left, abandoned by the pyre as he ran for home. Drawn by the sound, they turn to look at me, as one, and two pairs of identical eyes take in my appearance.

"Mom, your hair!" Henry exclaims, pulling a face, half frown, half amused. I shoot him a look, and his face smoothes out, blank now. Emma says nothing, but I feel her gaze hot on my face.

"You need to go," I say, motioning them forward. They stand, and pick up the bags, Henry clutching the book. We move down the stairs, house still quiet and in darkness, the early morning light barely penetrating the gloom. I turn to Emma, and her face softens as she looks at me, her gaze intimate and close. My eyes flit out of the window, the motion covering my unease.

She pulls me aside, motioning to Henry to stay by the door. Rounding the corner where we can't be seen, she steps close to me, breath moving my hair.

"What do we do?" I look at her, and do not know what to tell her. I had plans for such an occasion, but they have long fallen by the wayside, complicated and outmoded by my own poor understanding of the game we're playing, and by the unpredictability of the players. Fighting for the continuance of the curse, the maintenance of the status quo, had stopped the moment the bird, and not Emma, ate the turnover.

It was her belief, I realise, that restored the memories of her family and friends. It was her sudden understanding and acceptance of my son's fairytale theories that sped up the gradual unravelling her presence alone caused. The wreck of my curse is laid bare at my feet, the fact that we remain in Storybrooke the only part holding firm. To take away the memories again is more than I have magic, or heart, for. I sacrificed my father, and will not sacrifice his namesake.

Now, all I am fighting for is the survival and welfare of my son. And yet, with that in mind, I may be more dangerous than before, for there is nothing a mother will not do for her child, no-one more ruthless than a woman whose children are threatened.

"Do you remember the place you went with Graham?" She nods, and swallows around the knot of hard emotion I see form in her throat, and her expression tightens, pained. "Get there, and go inside. Beneath the tomb, you will find steps. Henry will be safe in there, until this is over." She nods, understanding my need, our shared need, to keep my son safe from harm. We move back towards Henry, standing for once where we left him, eyes round with fright.

She picks up her father's sword from the hallway floor, carelessly dropped in the rush of our return, and I open the front door, Emma and Henry following close behind. As I do so, the shape rises again in front of me, and I push them back, behind the door frame, motioning for them to hide. I step out of the door, smile in place, and walk down the few steps. My garden, I see with regret, is a trampled mess, my carefully manicured lawns and hedges churned to a sea of mud by last night's angry mob. I feel a flash of anger at the destruction, a welcome return to that old emotion, and a smile quirks at my lips, suddenly feeling myself again. I will make everyone who threatens me, my house, my son, pay. Starting, I think, with that obnoxious spitting dwarf.

A rushing and beating of air makes me look up, a shadow falling across the ruined garden, and the temperature drops noticeably. The dragon lands in front of me, yellow eyes staring unblinkingly in my direction.

"Maleficent," I say, striding towards her. "Long time, no see." The words are trite, mundane, their colloquialism grating, but they are sufficiently flippant, uncaring. The dragon bows its head, in greeting, and I cross my arms in front of me, all weight on one leg, waiting. It roars, hot breath blowing in my face, and I feign disinterest, tapping one foot lightly against the floor. Yellow eyes narrow dangerously, but one clawed foot steps out, and the dragon sinks down, head low against the floor, a bestial parody of a bow. I smile, and focus my will on the dragon, seeing it transform and shrink, changing. Mist spreads out in all directions, growing, billowing, and then retreating, reforming, and then the witch stands in front of me, womanly and human again. Her jaws works, up and down, soundlessly, as she looks at her hands, runs them through her hair, down the front of her dress.

"Regina." She moves her neck side to side, stretching the muscles. The joint in her neck crack and pop, audible even from this distance. "I have been too long in my dragon form, and forget where I am. It seems we have all been," she pauses, considering, "transplanted." She smiles, all teeth, stepping forward, touching her hand to my cheek, to the grazes still evident there. "Circumstances which, it seems, have not been altogether too kind to you, although I assume they're of your making?"

Her hand pulls back, preparing a blow, but I see her intention, catching her wrist with my own, shaking my head at her display of temper.

"Bitch," she hisses, "you used it. The curse." I nod, pleasantly, not allowing her hostility to faze me. I know this woman, and, powerful as she is, she would not dare defy me. She withdraws her hand, answers my smile with one of her own.

"So, since we're stood here, like this. I'll assume it's breaking." I nod, again, jaw tightening involuntarily as I hear the shouts of approaching people, angrily seeking the dragon. Don't these people ever get tired, I wonder, weariness rapidly spreading through my bones. "Who broke it? Snow White, or that fool husband of hers?"

"No, her daughter," I say, corralling as much hate and disdain into my voice as I can, resolutely trying not to think about the woman hiding behind my door, the way magic sparked between our lips, the way she washed me clean, the way our bodies pressed invitingly against each other. To distract myself, I say out loud the name from Henry's book. "The White Knight." Maleficent looks up at me, eyes wide, and I wonder what thoughts run behind them.

"By chance, of course. Damn woman hasn't got enough brain cells to walk straight, let alone outmanoeuvre me." A snort of disgust and anger issues from behind me. I do not turn, keeping myself firmly focused on Maleficent before me. The other woman's eyes, however, dart past me, squinting hard into the gloom of the hallway, and she begins to move past me into the house. I imagine Emma and Henry, sat pressed against the wall, her hand over his mouth, both trying to remain still and quiet.

"She had help," I say, "Rumplestiltskin." Maleficent stops, turns. From the corner of my eye I see Emma and my son slink through the door, running low along the wall of the house, around the corner, heading for the woods.

"She owes him a favour? How interesting." Her phrasing makes me smile, sounding as it does straight out of my own head, and I nod. The look on her face is one of feral excitement, cold and ruthless.

"And I owe him a debt of blood," she says, stepping forward to take my hand, "perhaps a visit is in order." I incline my head, and imagine Gold's shop. Purple mists surround us, and we are there.

Xxx


	8. Chapter 8

The door to Gold's shop is locked, but a flick of my wrist sends it flying open, bell ringing frantically. Maleficent looks sideways at me, considering.

"I see you have lost none of your power," she says, and I watch her flex he own fingers, frustrated at the lack of magic. I cannot stop the smirk from crossing my face, but turn so she will not catch the fleeting expression.

The shop seems deserted, and we pick our way through the dusty piles, relics of lives only just remembered. These trophies seem, in some peculiar way, far more gruesome than my own collection of hearts. I shiver, and Maleficent again looks at me, eyes askance. I must remember that our alliances have only ever been temporary, when both want something from the other, and quickly dissolved when the mutual need is gone.

"Come, Regina," she drawls, "don't tell me you've gone soft." She moves close to me, and I want to step back, regain some space, but do not. Maleficent trails a long nail down my neck, stopping where I know is the start of a purpling bruise, a physical reminder of Emma Swan's presence, and the inescapable fact I chose to save her. Maleficent sucks in a breath, delightedly. "Well, what's this? Found something to fill the void, have we?"

I brush her hand away, turn my head as though listening intently. Maleficent's attention follows, and we head towards the rear of the shop, pausing by the counter, and I rest my hand for an instant on the meticulously kept ledger. If I open it, if I read it, all the details of Gold's deals with the town would be revealed to me, and that could only help secure my position.

Still there's no sign of life, and, leaving the ledger behind for the moment, I push through the curtain into the small back room, and stop, mouth open. The wall opposite me is covered with newspaper articles, photographs and scrawled names, listing every citizen of Storybrooke, their lives and identities, in this world and the other. In the centre, recently added, is a large photograph of Emma, the words 'favour owed' printed clearly along the bottom.

The sight stalls me, makes me truly realise how thoroughly I've been played, that Rumpelstiltskin has known who he was, who I am, all along. Looking at the wall, I know how totally and easily I've been used, not the architect of this reality, but just a simple thing, moved and controlled by the whim of another. I remember all the times Gold has gone against me, and how often things have fortuitously swung his way. I remember all the times he has said 'please', in that sickeningly emphatic way of his, and know that he has known what he was doing, all the time.

Anger flares in the pit of my stomach, and for the first time since the prophetic dream, fee again like myself. I think of his sycophantic smile, his affected limp, and allow the hatred to fill me. The feeling is old, comfortable, and I close my eyes to savour it, to feel it settle into my bones. My eyes snap open as I feel Maleficent stand beside me.

"Well, dear. We're here and he's not. What, exactly, was it you wanted?"

Maleficent moves forward to peer more closely at the wall, and at the photo of the Sherriff in particular. She cocks her head, and lifts her hand to the photo, running her fingers tenderly over the surface. She laughs, and it is only as she turns that I see her dragon-like nails have torn a ragged line across the photo's throat. I roll my eyes and raise one eyebrow, sardonically, waiting for her to speak.

She might have continued the desecration of Emma's image, but her attention is drawn to a glass fronted cabinet stood in a darker corner.

"There," she breathes, running her hands across the glass front, breath leaving disturbed trails in the dust. She goes to open the door but finds it locked, pulling and rattling on the handle. I step up behind her and see what it is she so desires. A dagger, with curved edges, dull gleaming read, the word Rumpelstiltskin etched into its blade. I never seen it before, but everyone has heard the story, and I know this to be the source of his power and his curse.

"Its locked," Maleficent hisses, wanton greed shining in her eyes, "do something about it".

I flex my fingers, and focus my rage at the lock, imagine it sliding back, clicking softly into place. Nothing happens. Maleficent glares at me, and I try again, focusing, this time, on the way Emma called my name, softly, invitingly, and the way it pushed me over the edge, flying falling, a thousand colours exploding behind my eyelids. I focus on Emma, and let the feeling flow out of me towards the cabinet, willing it to work.

This time, something happens. A spark of electricity flies out of the lock, aiming straight for my chest. I turn to avoid it, and it hits me side on, the pain coursing through my body like a pea being pushed through my veins. I stagger back, pushed off balance by the force of the spark. My mind is foggy, slow, and I am lost for a moment in my thoughts, clinging still to the image of Emma, feeling myself soften around the edges, swim out of focus and back, all sense of purpose dissolving. When I return to myself, I wonder how different the reaction would have been had my magic still been powered by rage and anger, rather than – rather than by whatever powers it now

"Magically sealed," Maleficent says, lips curled back in a snarl. . This was a trap, I think, for anyone brave enough to come looking for it, and foolish enough to try to force the lock with magic. It was a trap, I think, designed specifically to trap me. She presses her hands against the glass again, staring covetously at the knife. I turn back to the wall of photos, seeing again how precisely everything is mapped out, how meticulously organized and categorized.

I try to block out Maleficent's whisperings – she seems to actually be talking to the knife, a sure sign of desperation – when the bell tinkling above the shop door lets us know we are no longer alone. We turn together, and face the curtain. It twitches aside, and a young woman enters, brown hair loose and lank around her shoulders. She sees me and freezes, eyes widening a familiar expression of loathing.

"You!" she hisses, anger evident in her tone. I pretend I have trouble calling her to mind, although I know full well who she is. Then I smile, as if in recognition, and point my finger at her, as if to stress my memory.

"The girl my carriage splashed on the road." I smile even wider, remembering that meeting. "You were in love, weren't you? How did that go?"

She starts forwards, as if to hit me, but a hand comes round the corner and holds her, gently, back. Its owner follows, both hands resting on her shoulders, smoothing, rubbing, thumbs tracing idle patterns over the material of her dress. I see, all at once, the point this curse, and the games that followed it. All of this, all of the lies and deals and manipulations, was so that Gold could be reunited with his true love. The woman he blamed me for losing. Really, of course, it was his own fault, but grief does funny things to a person, twists them up inside, and then they you come out wrong footed, somehow, off kilter and out of sync. And when you have power, of course, the changes are only that much worse, more permanent and damaging. He used me, and my grief, to assuage his, to ensure that I would return the thing I hated the most – happy endings – for everyone other than me.

My fists clench, and I prepare to send a bolt of magic straight through the girl's prettily beating heart. In the old world, the dark one would have expected it, would have prepared defences, but here he thinks me powerless, weak, as useless as the girl at his side. I could do it, make us even, trap us both forever in hatred, ruin his plans as surely as my own were ruined, and am about to, filling myself up with magic, feeling it seep through my skin, ready to burst forth.

"Regina, Maleficent. Sit, please".

I sit heavily on the chair he gestures to, Maleficent and Belle casting me inquiring looks, confused, no doubt, about my easy compliance. Damn the man, I think, and damn my easy acquiescence to his seemingly innocent demand. I should have known better, I should have prepared.

"Belle, tie her Majesty up. And Mayor, please don't resist."

I sit there, numbly, unmoving, as the girl ties my hands behind my back with duct tape. Maleficent screams at me to move, do something, but I cannot, the promise as binding as it ever was, and even I cannot defy the old magic. Maleficent's screams are suddenly cut short and from the corner of my eye, I see her drop to the floor, unconscious but breathing, Rumplestiltskin holding a bronze statue aloft, smiling sweetly at it.

As I take in her slumped form, a stinging slap makes contact with my face, and I turn to see Belle stood in front of me, breathing heavily.

"You bitch," she spits, "I trusted you, and thought you meant me well." I smile, putting as much honesty and sincerity into it as I can.

"I did," I say, voice rising, protesting. "I myself have been unlucky in love, and merely wished to give you the best advice I could. How was I to know a pretty girl like you would be in love with a monster?"

Another slap quickly knocks the smile off my face, and as my head rocks with the blow, absorbing some of the sting, I think that the people in Storybrooke really need some lessons in manners. I have been hit far too frequently over the past few days for my liking. It's time to remind them of respect, and humility, and fear.

Duct tape is pressed over my mouth, preventing me from speaking further, another insult to my dignity. Rumplestiltskin leans over, bringing his face close to mine, smiling at me. I struggle against the bindings, fighting to be free.

"Don't do that," he says. "Please." The fight leaves me, and he giggles inhumanly, delightedly at the simplicity of his control over me. I will kill him, I think, I will watch him die at my hand, if it's the last thing I ever do. He stands up, holds hands with Belle.

"We have to go now," he says, free hand gesturing out of the door, "I'll let the others know where you are. And please, your Majesty, don't try to escape." He smiles, and they are gone, leaving me alone in the shop, Maleficent still laying pale and unmoving on the floor. I try to shout through the tape, to rouse her from her sleep, but as I struggle I can sense, on the periphery of feeling, the edge of his request. Do not try to escape. I try a little magic, willing the tape to fall away in the same manner the ropes had done, but nothing happens, and I know that his damn request restricts even this new magic.

Instead, I focus on Emma, picture her in my mind, imagining her leading Henry down into the vault beneath my father's monument. I imagine them stood there, looking at the wall of hearts, wondering what lies behind the little, unopening doors. I imagine her stood watching our son as he sleeps, her father's sword propped against the wall, or held loosely in her hands. I imagine her as she rubs her eyes, tries to take in all that has happened, tries to accept the self-evident truth.

As I do so, I cannot help but wonder why she is suddenly the source of my power. The saviour, the woman destined to destroy me and mine, not to strengthen, reinforce and support me. I have tried, time and again, to revert to my old methods, my inexhaustible wells of anger and hate, but not once have they worked. Where the thought of her does, everytime. Were it anyone else that had engendered this reaction, I might know what it meant. But the White Knight, child of my most despised enemy, can only be a weakness to me, a stain on my life, a blotch on my fragile happiness. And I had been happy with Henry, until she came, until he found her. Once this is over, I promise myself, once normality is restored, my place firmly at the top re-established, and these peasants have been taught their lesson, I will cut her from my life, and from that of my son.

The ringing of the shop bell tells me the door is opened, and someone has entered the shop. I sit, still, watching the curtain with a fierce intensity, ready to unleash hell's fury at anyone who dares threaten me again.

xxx


	9. Chapter 9

The curtain pushes open, and standing there, wide open and vulnerable is Snow White. She blinks in horror at the wall of photos, and as she adjusts I send a blast of magic straight at her pretty, unguarded face. Not enough to kill, just to render her unconscious, incapacitated, slumped against the wall. Then, when Maleficent wakes, we can have a little fun, like the old days. The plan is almost perfect, right up until the point Snow is suddenly pulled to the side, moving just out of reach, the magic impacting harmlessly against the wall.

Her daughter pushes past her, eyes blazing, pausing only briefly to take in the sight of me strapped to the chair and Maleficent lying lifelessly on the floor. She crosses to me, and pulls the tape from my mouth in one painful move.

"Mary Margaret, see to her," she says, gesturing carelessly at the woman on the floor. Her mother winces visibly at the name, her newly restored personality recoiling from the memory of the curse, and the years of ignorance it brought. Nevertheless, she moves to Maleficent, shaking her awake while Emma unties the tape around my wrists. I have never seen Snow White so biddable, taking orders like a simple servant. If only she had obeyed instructions earlier, how much might have been different.

Emma pulls me out of the room by my wrist, waiting until the curtain falls into place before running her hands over my face, fingers lingering over the reddened mark of Belle's slap.

"I think I've had enough of people hitting me," I joke, and her face draws into a frown.

"Why did you let him," she asks, "Why didn't you –" she waves her fingers, indicating magic, still unable to articulate the concept easily.

"I couldn't – a long story – but it involves a deal." She nods in understanding, and leans forward, face closing with mine, hot breath moving my hair. I reach a hand up between us, resting it lightly on her lips, forestalling any further speech or movement.

"Tell me, Miss Swan. Why do you insist on saving me?" She looks away, pulling my hand with her, the beginnings of a blush forming over her collar bones. She shrugs, noncommittally.

"It's what good people do."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Emma." Her head snaps back to mine, eyes wide. I soften my voice, look her in the eyes. This is important. "Tell me the truth." She looks down at her feet, sighs.

"You're really gonna make me say it, out loud." I stand silent, trapped by my own request. She leans forward, and kisses me, hands cupping my cheeks, body pressed soft and tight against my own. The action is sweet, full of tender emotion and affection, and it chokes my throat. My own hands encircle her waist, and as we kiss I feel the beginnings of an aching regret.

I understand her message, more clearly than had she spoken. I remember the way she looked at me, so hopeful her feelings, and not her death, could break the curse. But for real true love, the feeling needs to go both ways, and I am woefully incapable of providing what she needs.

I move forwards, the filling the motion with everything I wish I felt, everything the infuriating woman needs, what I so desperately want to remember. A shocked gasp issues from our left, and we break apart, turning together to the source of the noise. Snow White stands, hand covering her open mouth in shock; Maleficent beside her smirks unbearably. Snow shakes herself, steps forward with intent, hand outstretched.

"Get away from my daughter," she warns, voice low, seemingly uncaring that it is her precious daughter who has me pinned against the wall, and not the other way around. She moves as if to grab me, but Emma stops her.

"Leave her alone," she growl threateningly, and stands between me and Snow, bodily protecting me. All I can do is smirk, satisfied, over Emma's shoulder, and watch as angry heat rushes over Snow's face.

"Don't trust her," she says, "its all a trick. A trick to use you." Emma holds up her hand to stop the flow of words, and together we move towards the door, her hand firmly clutching my own, fingers interlaced, as if to prove a point. Maleficent looks sideways at me, a small knowing smile on her lips. The smile irks me, in ways I cannot explain, and I send her a mental picture, violent and bloody, and the smile slips.

Outside, I extract my hand from Emma's, earning me a glare from Snow and Emma. Looking up and down the street, it's obvious no baying crowd are in sight. Perhaps, I think, Rumpelstiltskin lied when he said he would reveal our location. It would not be the first time. We need a plan, one designed not to resolve the curse, or suppress memories, but one to bring some sanity and control to this hellish situation.

"Miss Blanchard," I say, knowing that the name will only infuriate her further, enjoying the way she bristles at my address, "since the Sherriff and I are hardly likely to be welcomed by the townsfolk with open arms, I need you to call a meeting at the town hall. Say at half past seven, this evening?"

"You may have your claws set firmly into Emma, but I am not your thing to order around." I hate her. With every fibre of my being, I hate her. The feeling has not diminished with time, hasn't changed with place, or with my new found dependence on her daughter. She represents everything that is wrong with the world, with both worlds, the way the good and kind can get away with anything, even murder. I want her to suffer as I have suffered, I want her to know the pain of loss. Perhaps the curse was too kind, removing her memories. Perhaps I should only have cursed her daughter, sending her away, leaving Snow behind to mourn.

"Know this, Snow White, if I had my time again, I would let you die on that goddamned horse." It's mild, tame by comparison to most of the things swirling in my heart. It surprises me how such a relatively weak insult can have such an impact. Her face pales, and her fists clench.

"You're a bitch Regina."

"I am," I admit. "I have no illusions about myself. While your mother, Emma, thinks she fights on the side of good, of the downtrodden and depressed. When in reality, she's just as guilty as the woman who ripped his heart out." I know my argument will make no sense to Emma, jumping as it does to past lives. But it means something to Snow White. Emma holds up her hands, stepping between us, again creating a physical shield, a barrier.

"Woah, no-one's heart is getting ripped out of their chests. By either of you." Snow seems unwilling to speak, so I do so for her.

"A long time ago, I told your mother a secret, one she couldn't keep. And because she couldn't keep it, an innocent man died. He died in agony, because she couldn't keep a secret and because she couldn't do as she was told." We are face to face, staring each other down. I don't know who this is for, this explanation. I have told Emma as much as I need her know, already. This is more an airing of grievances, a recitation of my hatred.

"I didn't know," Snow says, hands stretched wide, just as they had before, when she saw David's grave.

"Of course you didn't. You were a child, and I kept it from you. After all, what kind of person tells a child they're a murderer? And then, after all that, her father, my husband, the man for whose sake my lover was killed, he cared for me not one jot. He spent his entire life praising her, her kindness, her goodness. He praised her, while I lived daily with the weight of her crimes on my heart." I make the words hard, watch them land, stinging. It is only right that she feels finally the impact of her actions, their consequences, for I have felt them every moment from that day till this. I see the guilt cross her features, and shiver with satisfaction. She should feel guilty.

My focus on Snow White is so intense I have forgotten Maleficent's presence almost entirely.

"Just do it, dear," she says to Snow White. "Regina, I'd love to stay and," she pauses, eyes flitting to Emma, "catch up, but I have some old business to attend to." She moves off, pulling a reluctant Snow White with her.

Emma watches me expectantly, hope flooding her eyes.

"What's the plan then?" I sigh, and press the heel of my hand to my forehead, rubbing, not caring how weak I look. Making plans is harder when there's other people involved, when you care who gets hurt.

"There is no plan, Miss Swan," I say, finally, brutally, honest. "I don't know how to send everyone back. I didn't design the curse, and I never intended it to break." It seems my honesty inspires some in her too, for she leans her head against my shoulder, arms around my waist.

"I don't want to die," she says, and her voice is small, muffled. Damn Emma Swan, I think, although the thought seems hollow. Damn her for taking Henry's affections so easily, damn her for breaking the curse. And most of all, damn her for making me care what happens to her.

"We'll think of something," I promise, and she holds me tighter. We're still stood in the middle of the street, the two most endangered people in the town, stood in the wide open, and we need to move before we're found.

"Come," I say, "let's find Henry."

xxxx


	10. Chapter 10

Henry was just where Emma had left him, sitting against my wall of hearts in the vault beneath my father's tomb. I give a silent prayer of thanks, though I cannot believe in any deity, that neither he nor Emma could open the chambers, see the gruesome secrets that lay beneath. He looks tired drained by the drama of recent events. I'm sure he imagined being proved right going differently, the curse breaking cleanly, in a shower of pretty sparks. He's only a child, and does not know that nothing is ever finished cleanly, in any world.

Emma, too, looks tired, lines of strain and worry etch her face. I sit next to Henry and pull her down beside me.

"Rest," I say, "until the meeting." She wants to fight, I know, wants to protest, to stay awake and protect Henry. But already sleep is claiming her, pulling at her eyelids, lowering her head and fogging her thoughts. She rests her hand on my shoulder, and Henry moves into my lap. I hold him tight, trying to think of a plan to save him, to save all three of us.

The floor is cold, and I can feel dampness rising through my trousers. At this point, however, I am beyond moving. I, too, am tired, so very tired, exhausted by the breaking of the curse, by the constant search for happiness I will never find. I don't remember when revenge stopped being enough, when my satisfaction at Snow White's fall was outweighed by this empty longing. It's been a long time in the making, I know, only sped up by Henry, and then by Emma's arrival.

I am reminded of Maleficent's warnings, that enacting the curse would leave a void in my soul. I laughed then, uncaring, believing the existing hole in my heart big enough already. And for years, that's all there was. But slowly, although my hate has not declined, although I am still as hurt and angry as I ever was, those feelings have less impact, somehow. Now I see them as if through a veil, darkly, distanced and far removed.

My mind slips to the woman resting beside me. By all accounts, I should hate her too – the daughter of my enemy, the product of true love, my prophesied downfall. Had I sense, I would end her here, take her heart and place it safe in the wall behind us. She would be calm, then, compliant and malleable. I could say to her, as I had to the Huntsman, 'do this' and it would be done. Leave, I could say, and don't come back. Guard my son, come to my bed, kill Snow White. I loosen my hand from about Henry, and for a moment it hovers above her chest, lightly touching the fabric of her shirt.

She shifts slightly, turning closer to me, still asleep, and I think of her face in Gold's shop. I hadn't made her say it out loud, after all, but I understood her message. I move my hand, trailing my fingers just half an inch from her face, and smooth her hair behind her ear. I will not take her heart, for I know, with an uncomfortable glimmer of guilt, that I already have it.

I place my hand back on my son's shoulder, and lean my head against the wall.

The hours slip away until the beeping of an electronic alarm wakes Emma. She sits up sharply, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. I smile at her, and she returns a semblance of the expression, small and afraid. I remove my hand again Henry, take hers in my own, squeeze tightly, reassuring. Her smile solidifies, and she leans to kiss me, drawing strength for the evening to come, Henry trapped between us. She pulls back, touches her hand to his shoulder, waking him.

"Come on, kid," she says, "it's time." Sleep clogs Henry's eyes, and he blinks at her, not understanding. "I love you Henry," she says, "and I need you to promise me something." Her expression is grave, and I know that she does not expect to survive the night. Henry nods, and looks seriously at her.

"If something – if something happens, to me or to your Mom, you go to Miss Blanchard, OK? You stick with her." It's good advice, and I nod my assent. My son – our son – launches himself forward, holding her tight, the motion digging painfully into my legs as his feet find leverage in my thighs.

I move him off my lap, and stand, brushing what dust I can from my clothing, running a hand through my hair. Emma stands too, picks up her father's sword, and holds her hand out to Henry, who takes it, holding onto her with both of his own. I step up to them, place my hand on Henry's shoulder and the other on the join of Emma's shoulder and neck, feeling her heartbeat there, steady and strong.

Smoke surrounds us, and when it clears, we are stood in the back corridor of the Town Hall, not a soul in sight. I drop my hands, bring them back to my sides. From behind the panelled door I can hear the meeting room filling with people, the buzz of their conversations drifting through the walls. I straighten my hair, my shirt, run my hands down the front of my trousers. I concentrate on becoming, on being, the Mayor. Not the Queen, not Regina, not a mother or a lover, but the human personification of the town, of authority, calm, cool and collected. I feel nothing, care for nothing.

"God," says Emma, "it's creepy when you do that." I just smirk at her, and gesture towards the door.

"Do you want to stand here all day, or shall we get on with it?"

As we enter the room, walking onto the stage, the assembled crowd falls quiet, a hush descending on the room. At least, this time, they aren't trying to kill us outright, I think. Snow White stands already at the podium, her voice fumbling to a stop, and she cannot contain the burst of dislike that crosses her countenance. Her constancy reassures me, grounds me, and confidence rises in me.

I move up to the podium, forcing her to step aside, to vacate the position of power, place my hands on either side of the lectern and smile down at my audience.

"Citizens of Storybrooke," I says, feeling firmly myself again, "thank-you for coming so peaceably." Murmurs break out, and I hold up a hand for quiet. "You probably would like nothing better than to tie me again to the stake. I understand the desire for revenge, I do. Perhaps better than anyone." I turn my gaze to stare pointedly at Snow White, stood now beside her daughter and grandson, and she blushes and squirms under my gaze. Interesting, I think – enough of the timid school teacher remains inside the girl to fear me. Some of the crowd are shifting uncomfortably in their seats, uneasy with the comparisons I draw between us. The fact is, that Good and Evil are divided only very finely, and they need to remember that.

"But killing me, or Miss Swan, will serve no purpose. It will not break the spell. It will not send you home." I say this with as much conviction and sincerity as I can, hoping that they will believe their Mayor, even if they cannot trust the Evil Queen. "Magic has returned to Storybrooke, and I am working on a spell to send you all home." Gasps of amazement and relief spread through the corwd like wildfire, and from the corner of my eye I can see Emma look towards me, mouth open, forehead drawn into a half-frown. "Regret the curse, have for a long time, and wish now only to repent, and to atone for my deeds by undoing my spells, and sending you all home. Once there, I will submit to any justice you propose." Henry and Snow White now wear identical looks to Emma's, and my son is shaking his head. Clearly, neither one believe the lie. Silently, I beg them not to give away the lie, the necessary pretence, to expose my real unrepentant and unchanging nature. Later, when the dust settles, everyone will see my deception for themselves. But now, however, it would be death to the one that utters it.

"Lies!" screech Rumplestiltskin and Granny together. The old woman has stood from her seat, fingers pointing straight at me, hand trembling with rage and age. The waitress pulls her down, into her seat, and whispers furiously in her ear. Rumplestiltskin bounces up the steps, making himself visible to all.

"I created the curse," he says, "I wrote it. And I know there's only one way to break it." He turns, and I see something glint in his hand, the light reflecting off a wickedly sharp, curving blade. "Emma Swan must die." As he speaks, he throws the knife, its inscribed blade twisting in the air, flying straight for Emma's unprotected heart.

I am moving, jumping, flying myself, and as I move, I wonder why I did not just magic her away, as I had myself all those years ago. His face twists in rage, and I feel my own features begin to curl into a triumphant smirk. The blade bites deep into my stomach, at first feeling like nothing, a slap at most. As I fall, I turn, the cut stretching and opening, hot blood seeping into my shirt, my trousers, white heat lancing through the wound, and taste of iron fills my mouth. The knife, and the cut, are drawing my magic and life fast, twisting impossibly deeper as I hit the floor.

The impact and loss of blood leave me dazed. In the background I hear screaming, and cannot tell who it is, Emma or Rumplestiltskin, or maybe someone else. I bring my hands to my face, slowly, and they are bright red. Emma is beside me, frantically pressing on the wound, trying to stem the tide of blood.

"I'm sorry," I say, truthfully this time, and my voice is thick, slow, deadened. She shakes her head, unspeaking. I turn my head, see Rumplestiltskin held to the floor by James and other, unrecognizable men. He is screaming, shouting, cursing, writhing under the press of bodies, anxious to be free. His magic must not have fully returned, as the men hold him securely, pinning him to the floor. Belle is standing next to the pile of men, shouting and hitting out randomly. Further along, next to the podium, Henry is clinging to Snow White, his face streaked with tears, hers set with a grim determination.

Maleficient, somehow, is with us too, hands held over the wound in the healing pose, but no magic seeps from her fingers. My oldest friend and greatest rival is helpless, useless without her magic. Gently, although each motion drives claws of pain deeper through my body, she draws the knife out of me, holds it to her face in wonder, fingers tracing the flat edge. It's what she wanted, all along, to hold the knife and loyalty of the Dark One. Perhaps, I hope, this was not how she envisioned obtaining it, but together we had always maintained the end justifies the means. Her eyes lock with mine, and I see the dragon-lust lurking behind their surface, and know that the world has a new terror to face, now that the Evil Queen is vanquished.

The edges of my vision fade and swim, not with black darkness, but a strange yellow opaqueness that shrinks and grows, tinting my sight. I turn back to Emma, force my hand to her face, watching distractedly as I leave a bloody smear across her cheek, my fingers tangling in her hair. My arm is heavy, too heavy to hold up, and it sags, bringing her head down to meet mine. She closes the distance between our lips, tears running freely. Too late, far too late, I feel my own eyes leaking, and I kiss her back, wishing desperately that I had been her true love, that I had told her that I cared, that she, and her son, had given me again a reason to fight for someone other than myself.

"No," she is whispering, over and over and over again. "No no no no no no," the word a mantra, a chant, a plea. Her hands have left my stomach now, cupping my face. I wish, with all that I am, with everything I have ever been, that Emma, over all others, finds a happy ending.

I kiss her, and feel a wind rushing through my hair, over us, around us, and then the yellow closes over me completely, and I am –


	11. Chapter 11

They fêted her, their Saviour. All across the lands, they held parties and balls, wrote simpering sonnets praising her beauty and bravery. Their return to their homes, found as if no time had passed, brought great joy and celebration, with the promise happy endings galore. I sound bitter, even to my own ears. It's not that I begrudge their pride in her, or envy their happiness, but I hate them, still. For not once, in all that celebration, did they stop to ask her opinion. Not one of them took the time to acknowledge what it cost her, what it cost me. Our ending was just a footnote in her mother's triumphant restoration to the throne.

And of me, an equal partner in that restoration, not one word was said. I faded from their minds as easily as unremarkable dream. Even my most loyal servants found new masters, new lives, turning from their previous loyalties as easily as weathervanes with the wind. The things of mine that still stood were left, ignored, condemned to rot and decay through apathy, my memory fading with each passing day. Only two people in the entire kingdom thought of me, spoke to me – my son and his mother. They fought for me, at first, exaggerating my redemption, downplaying the bad, remembering me at every speech and ceremony. But slowly, gently, the pervasive apathy wore them away, chipping at their resolve until their love for me was kept hidden, private, only to be thought of and discussed behind closed doors, in the silence of the night.

Now the sunlight streams in through the narrow crack in the curtains I have made, illuminating the gloom. I stand, looking out at the scenery – sweeping mountains, blue skies, the glimmering hint of a lake in the distance. It's an amazing world out there, one I had forgotten, and one she should be out, exploring, discovering, making her mark on this as surely as on the old.

I turn, and cross the room to her side, brush back lank tendrils of hair from her forehead, ghost my lips over her cheek. I can no longer deny what she means to me, past events and current circumstances dictating I must be honest with myself.

"Miss Swan," I say, leaning down to make eye contact, my voice dropping into its Mayoral register, "It's time you got out of this chair and did something. I will not have you slacking off. Just because you are no longer Sherriff does not mean you can sit here forever." She turns to me, and for a moment those green eyes seem to focus on my face, tenderly. I reach up and cup her cheek, smiling. I think, briefly, she is going to reply, but then her eyes slip, her focus shifting, and her gaze settles on something behind, looking past me, looking through me.

The door opens a crack, and Snow White slips sideways through the opening, barely fitting through the entrance, as though she dare not open it wider. I shoot her a look, hating her still, but she appears not to notice and makes her way to her daughter. I turn, and move back to the window, gazing again at the scenery. She sniffs in disgust at the state of the room, empty dishes piled next to Emma's chair, dust settling on the furniture, a smell of must and stale disuse filling the room. Were I in charge here, this would never be allowed to occur, but the servants do not respond when I order them, turn their heads and look away.

"Your father and Henry and I are going for a picnic this afternoon, by the lake. We want you to come." For once, the woman says something sensible. I turn to look at her, and see she is bent down, crouching by the chair, hands entwined with Emma's. Emma looks up, into her mother's eyes, and smiles, weakly. She almost nods, I can see it forming in the muscles of her neck, but she stops, and turns her gaze to me.

"I can't not. Not today. Perhaps next time." Snow White and I are speaking at the same time, our meanings in harmony. The thought surprises me, and my train of thought breaks. Emma is still turned my way, listening, so I too crouch down next to her chair, and will her to go.

Since our return to this land, Emma has stilled. In Storybrooke, she was always moving, full of life and energy and fight. Her strength of will, magic born from her personality, had the power to stop an entire town, bent on bloody rampage. When we fought, when we argued, her eyes flashed fire and vim and vigour, and I always knew that she would make a formidable enemy. I even thought that, in another life, she would have been a friend. But now, she sits, day after day, in that ragged, marked chair, picking at the foods servants bring her, not venturing outside the confines of the room. She is still, both her body and her soul, and I hate the inhabitants of this world for allowing it.

"For goodness' sake, Emma," I snap, exasperated. "Just go on the damn picnic." Before, I avoided profanity – a refuge of the weak and ignorant, little more than meaningless stuffing, the curse words filling the void left by their lack of vocabulary. Emma Swan, however, frequently drives me to the point where the words slip out, frustrated and unintended. At least, I think, Henry cannot hear me, cannot be corrupted. Rather than be raised to action, Emma closes her eyes, screws her face against the light, and sighs.

"Sometimes, Snow," she says, quietly, "I think I hear her. Telling me to eat, or go out. It's like she's right there, arguing with me." She reaches for me, fingertips brushing the edge of my clothes, hovering above my chest. "She's not, though, is she?" Her hand retreats, and although I reach for it, curl my fingers around hers, my hold has no power, and she slips through my fingers like mist. It is Snow White, instead, that takes her hand, holds it close and presses kisses to the skin. Another thing to hate her for, I think, but the bite is softer, these days, less potent and I know I cannot maintain it. "I didn't even get to bury her. And now you want me to forget her, like everyone else has." She stops and buries her head in Snow's shoulder, clinging desperately to the other woman, silent sobs heaving through her frame. "I can't."

I sit on the armrest of her chair, and stroke her hair softly, balancing with one foot on the ground. It's hardly ladylike, but I suppose no-one will see me. I whisper to her - short, comforting words, full of love and reassurance. Being the comforter has never come easily to me, and I never took the trouble to practice, although these days I often wish I had.

We stay like that for a long time, the three of us, and slowly the room gets darker, the light withdrawing for the day. Snow will soon be missed, sent for, summoned to dinner, and she will leave Emma in the darkness alone. The door opens, and I am surprised that it is the wolf's grandmother stood there, not a court guard.

"Snow," she says, out of breath, "Emma." She moves further into the room, leaving the door wide open, torch light filling the entrance. "Last night was full moon, and this morning Red found something in the woods." Her hand is over her heart, and I can hear its frantic beating from here. She stops, panting, and leans heavily on a sideboard. When she straightens again, wiping her dusty hand on her skirts, her voice is stronger, a blend of fear and excitement. "It's her. It's the witch."

Suddenly, like the woman of old, Emma is standing, away from the chair, eyes clear and fixed. She takes a step forward, rolls her shoulders and stands, confident and strong.

"Take me to her," she says, and her voice will not be gainsaid. "Take me to Regina."


	12. Chapter 12

We set off down the corridor at a fast stride, Emma streaming out ahead, and Snow and Granny hurrying to keep up. I move along next to her, hand on her back, hair flying behind me. Guards turn as we pass, armor chinking as they move, pivoting at the sight of the royal party racing towards Emma's unused rooms. Suddenly, she pauses, causing her mother and Granny to bump to a stop behind her, undignified. I pull to a halt, gracefully, three steps ahead of them, and watches as she gives orders to a runner – a horse to be saddled, provisions to be packed, Henry to be dressed and fetched.

She has barely stopped speaking when she's moving again, leaving her followers in her wake. This is more like it, I think, more like the woman I had railed and fought and struggled against, whose determination and persistence had worn down my walls, leaving me helpless, exposed and hers. In her rooms, Spartan, impersonal, untouched, she changes quickly into riding breeches and a loose shirt. The others look away, divert their eyes in embarrassment and politeness, but I cannot be seen and so I stare shamelessly. The rounded flat of her stomach, the swell of her breasts, the line of her legs; all fall to my longing gaze, and I run my hands across her body, tracing the curves and shapes of her, remembering her in this moment in a way I wish I had done before. I am not finished, I am not yet even half satisfied with my exploration, when she is moving, drawing a warm cloak about her shoulders, and rushing to the courtyard, her mother's protests following her ineffectually.

"Emma!" Snow shouts at her daughter's retreating back, "you can't go riding off into the Forest alone! There's _things_ out there, and you aren't strong enough." Emma is into the courtyard, blinking into the sun, before she stops and turns to face her mother. She smiles, gently, and draws the other woman into a hug. I can feel myself frowning, still unable to prevent the spike of dislike each time Snow is praised, or loved, or happy. I cannot prevent it, and even now do not want to, that hatred is solid, tangible and the thing I cling to in new and confusing times. I turn away, force the bile down into my throat, and focus on the horses being led out of their stable into the twilight.

"Emma," I hear Snow pleading, "please, stay. At least until the morning, when the light returns." Emma stands back from her mother, uses her arms to put her from her. She smiles, a hard and unjoyous expression, one straight out of my own library.

"Would you?" she asks, direct and unflinching. "Would you wait, if it was James?" Snow breathes in, audibly, steadying herself. She looks towards the castle, and raises her hand to cup Emma's cheek. For a moment, she stays silent, unspeaking and still, and then she shakes her head, eyes dropping to the floor.

"I'd go for him, in a heartbeat." Their moment is interrupted by Henry, who races down the steps, barreling into Emma, hands clutched fast around her waist. His hair sticks up on one side, and his clothes are in disarray, shirt tails flapping, grass stains on his knees. Emma falls to the floor in front of him, resting her weight on a knee, and tries to smooth his hair into place. She tugs at his shirt, worries at his trousers, and smiles ruefully at him.

"What would your Mom say, if she saw you like this?" she admonishes gently. As Henry tucks his shirt in and tugs on his collar and cuffs, I feel a surge of pride run through me, for my son and for her, for their ability to adapt, to cope in trying circumstances. I would never have thought, that day she first appeared on my doorstep, acting for all the world like some stray dog, searching for a new master, a new home, that she would turn out like this. Magic, loyal, brave and, when not languishing in some hideous chair, an undeniable credit to motherhood.

"You're going for her, aren't you," he says, voice low and private. She nods, seriously, and pulls him tight against her.

"I'll bring her home, don't worry. In the meantime, kid, you be good for Snow and James, alright?" He smiles his assent, and she stands, watches as he moves to his grandmother's side, hand clasped tight in hers, for strength, and as a sign of his obedience.

Emma moves to the horses, and mounts, unsteady still in the saddle, and urges the beast towards the gate. She pauses, and turns to wave at the people stood in the half-light, before moving across the bridge and out of the castle's grounds. I press myself into the saddle behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, under the cloak, and lean my face happily into her hair, the scent of her filling my nose.

Once on solid land, she waits, expectant. We do not wait long before the horses whinny and shy, hooves dancing on the packed earth in fear. Our mount jumps sideways, skittish, and her seat is suddenly perilous. I press my knees to the horse's flank, controlling, reach for the reins and calm it, gently easing the pressure on its sides, whispering nothings to it. It takes all my horsemanship to steady the animal as a large wolf slinks into view from the trees, yellow eyes staring at us. Emma nods in greeting, and the wolf turns and lopes away, heading down the forest tracks, deep into the darkness. I push the horse into a steady trot, keep us at a visible but unthreatening distance from the wolf's jaws, as Emma squints and strains her eyes against the dark.

We ride for hours, until the horse's side glistens in the moonlight, slick with sweat. Emma sways on its back, tired and sore.

"It's time to stop for a rest," I tell her, kissing the lobe of her ear. She leans into the caress, sighing, before pulling heavy handed at the bridle, slowing us.

"It's time to stop, Red," she calls. "I'm whacked, and I'm not the one who's been running!" She dismounts, holding to the saddle for support as her legs adjust again to her weight. Even in the moonlight, her face is pale and wan, pinched with tiredness and worry. I had forgotten that she has spent the last few weeks confined to a room, to a chair, and I pull her across to a log, force her to sit down. The wolf returns, danger glinting in its eyes, and I wonder whether it was safe to trust such a creature after all. Emma stands, leaves the log, and moves to the packs, pulling a red cloak and throwing it over the animal. As I watch, the shape under the cloak stretches and shrinks, the crack of bone resonating between the trees.

Emma tiredly pulls the sleeping mats from the bags as well, throwing them to the newly reformed Red Riding Hood, who lays them on the ground, too close together for my liking. Emma moves to hers, hand holding out some kind of indescribable food. When I travelled through the forest, even as quick and unprepared as this, I never suffered such awful food. Magic, of course, can help there, conjuring feasts from pine cones and dirt, but Emma has refused to train, grow, develop her magic, and remembering my own training at my mother's hands, I can understand why. My companions lie down, and I lie between them, flush against Emma's back, holding her tight against me that she might not feel the cold.

"Goodnight, Red," Emma says, loudly, and then, quieter, softer, in a voice not intended to carry, "Goodnight Regina."

"Goodnight, love," I say, and close my eyes to sleep.

In the morning, I wake and stretch, the cold and hard floor making my joints stiff and sore. I place a kiss on the still sleeping Emma, and stand. The wolf girl is already awake, rolling up her sleeping mat, moving lightly and quietly on her feet. As I stand she tenses, cocking her head sideways, listening. After a minute she relaxes, her shoulders drop slightly, and she shakes herself, as if to shake suspicion, but as I move she turns quickly, cape flowing out behind her, and stares wildly at me. I cross my arms, stare back at her, and wait.

"Emma!" she barks, her voice rough and gravlled. "Emma, get up." She bends, picks up a stick, and throws at Emma's sleeping back. Emma groans, rolls onto her back and rubs the sleep from her eyes. With sleep and her dreams still clinging about her, she is innocent, her face smooth and unlined, and I reach down, move to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She sits up, away from me, and pushes her hands through her hair, roughly, fingers tangling through unruly curls, the dark roots blackening without her world's dyes. In just a few short months her own colour will be through, like her mother's, like her son's. When I first met her, I thought the change cheap and obvious, an indication of her lack of finesse, class, overcome with contempt for all that she stood for, all that she threatened, everything her presence in my town promised. Now, I think, I will find a spell for that, a magical adjustment to the appearance genetics gave her.

She mounts the horse, and I mount behind her, the spare horse shying away from Red Riding Hood as she approaches, the smell of predator still hanging on her clothes, her hair, seeping from her very skin. Nervously, her horse began to moves forward, picking its way carefully, Emma and I following behind. We ride through the forest, meeting no-one, until suddenly Red stops the horse, and gestures for Emma to draw level.

"We're here," she says, dismounting. She heads into the forest, stepping easily over the fallen tree trunks, around sudden drops and ditches, hopping over marshy, boggy puddles, while Emma moves more slowly, less graceful, less precise, her clothes catching on overhanging twigs.

As we move, a strange sensation begins in the pit of my stomach, pulling me. It starts lightly, a gentle tug, showing me the way, but with every step its strength grows, wrenching at me, forcing me forward, my feet slipping and sliding in the mud. My shoes, made for small town mayoral duties and not for forest trekking, provide little traction, little grip, and my feet slide from under me, sending me crashing into the dirt. Even then, I am moving still, ghosting over the surface, drawn inexorably closer to our destination. Forward I fly, fingers trying to catch the scenery, trying to slow or halt my progress, but the obstacles pass straight through my hands.

My speed is increasing now – I have overtaken the wolf, heading feet first into the forest. Trees pass by, undistinguishable. In front of me I see a patch of light, growing larger, closer. The brightness is blinding, and I screw my eyes closed. I feel the bumps and scratches of the forest scrape my legs and back, feel my clothes rip, but it does not hurt. The feeling in my gut leaves little room for thought, and I am gasping, my breath whipped from my mouth by the rush of air.

I stop.

I lie there, stunned, panting heavily for breath. When I am calm, I sit up, look down at the body laying next to me. It's mine. Hair messed and mouth and eyes ungainly open, limbs sprawled in all directions, a large red stain covering my clothing. It is cold to the touch, unflinching, and my heart sinks as I remind myself there is no spell to restore the dead. Reanimate, yes. Control and command is possible, but the bodies remain lifeless husks, automatons at the will of the caster. If I am dead, I am stuck outside my body, invisible, untouchable, forever.

I don't feel dead. I have no sense the reaper is waiting for me around every corner, waiting to transport my soul away. The pull of this body was strong, and I cannot believe it would hold such power with all life stripped from it. I lean forward, place my hand over my mouth, waiting for a puff of breath, but before it comes am knocked away. Emma kneels beside me, rearranging my body, straightening my arms and legs, stroking the hair and dirt from my brow.

"Is she dead?" she asks, eyes pleading with Red for an answer, any answer, the answer she wants. The other woman shakes her head, moving down beside her friend. She touches the site of the wound and a fresh wave of blood seeps into my shirt.

"She's still bleeding," she says, "and when I first found her, her eye twitched." She places her hand on Emma's shoulder. "She's not dead, but she might be soon, if we can't save her." I am waiting, impatiently, to hear her grand plan, to be blessed with her wonderful insight on matters magical, when a piercing shriek fills the air, and the rhythmic beating of wings passes overhead. All three of our heads swing upwards in time to see a dark, scaled tail pass through the treetops.

Emma starts, jumps up, and we speak at the same time.

"Maleficent."


	13. Chapter 13

All three of us take off, running across the forest towards the dragon. Red Riding Hood is far ahead already, her gait loping and quick. Emma, too is fast, but unused to the rough and terrain, and in her awkward avoidance of roots, logs and stones, I find myself able to keep pace. As I run, that feeling returns, pulling me down, slowing my steps. I shake it off, force myself to keep moving forward, focus my will and surge onwards. I feel as if an invisible cord is pulling me, stretching under the pressure, preparing to recoil with vigour, like a child's bungee at a fair.

Even Emma, now, is almost disappearing from sight, her back retreating into the distance. As the trees take her, closing around her, hiding her from view, I find that I can go no further and stop, resignedly. From here, I can see nothing, hear nothing, of the fight I know is happening ahead, and I stand, straining my senses, before turning, and giving into the pull of my body.

This time, there is no undignified slip and slide, no crashing through the undergrowth unwillingly. Instead I find myself sat back beside myself, and am unable to recall the intervening space. I look down at myself, as if at a stranger, tracing the lines of my features, so heavily underscored with makeup, the miles of lace around my throat, the plunging neckline and wide, full skirts. I contrast it to my own attire, the clean lines of my trousers, the flattering fit of my shirt. Both, I think, are costumes, designed to intimidate and impress, to cast myself as the authority, someone to be respected and feared. The many faces of the evil Queen Regina. I say it to myself, out loud and bitterness rises in my throat. After all that I've done, after all I suffered, I am reduced to little more than a bit actor, spewing someone else's lines, moving as directed. I thought for a long time that I played the game, the game of power and revenge, rather well, that I had mastered the rules and the pieces. Too late, far too late, did I realize how little I knew, how much I had been deceived.

The self-pity sits uncomfortably on my shoulders, and I stand, pacing beside my body. I look more closely at the woman beneath me, at her wounds, and assess her chance of recovery. The wound is deep, and ragged at the edges. The skin is inflamed, infected probably, from a knife left too long uncleaned. Had she been anyone else, I know, the body would have died long ago, but perhaps some residual magic lingers, protecting her, for as my fingers probe and search, trailing over skin, she groans. A matching noise slips from my own throat, unbidden, and as I press the wound more firmly, I feel it too, the lancing pain, the heat of infection.

There must be a spell to reunite body and soul, but I do not know it. When I looked as she does, the very image of a cruel and unkind witch, I cared more for separating the two, wrenching hearts and souls free of their fleshy confines, and delighting as the bodies stumbled, pliant and willing, as they searched for their missing parts. The memories are clear, vivid in my mind, and I can almost feel the weight of a beating heart as it sits, helplessly, in my open palm. I remember the way they clung to the bodies, tethered to their owners, and the force it required to remove them.

I remember the feel of my hand, pushing into a chest, and I allow myself, for a moment, to imagine ripping out the heart of Snow White, as I should have done so many years ago. The picture does not delight me as it once have, and in my mind I turn to see the faces of Emma and Henry, staring at me hurt and disappointed. I try to exalt, to revel in my victory, but the weight of their disapproval settles across my shoulders, and the biting edge of revenge is blunted to a dull, and unsatisfactory ache. I could let the image go, let it dissolve into the air, but, for reasons I cannot explain, I choose to see myself once again plunging my hand into her chest, this time returning her heart, withdrawing empty and tired.

I know, in that moment, what I must do.

I move my hand to my chest, holding it above my shirt, above my breast. It is harder to do, knowing the pain that will come, and I pause, gathering courage. Just do it, I tell myself, in a tone I have always reserved for servants before. My hand is in my chest, fingers squeezing, and then my heart is in my hand, glowing in the dim forest light. The effort and the feeling leave me weak, retching, and I have to sit heavily on the floor, one hand out for support, until I am clear enough to look at my heart. I had thought, had always imagined, that it would be a blackened, shriveled organ, diseased and dying, but it looks just as any human heart I have seen before. Red and pulsing, covered in golden threads, the ties of affection and emotion, beating strongly and healthily against my palm. I raise it, watching as it catches the falling light, and then bring it down, holding it above my body. I have never done this before, never reversed the procedure, yet I cannot afford to doubt myself. This is powerful magic, and I breathe, filling myself with images of Emma, magic crackling through my hair, down through my fingers, causing the heart in my hand to speed up, beating faster and more wildly, fluttering with desire.

This is the moment. This is the precise moment, when I can change my fate, change the destiny thrown on me by the cruelty of my mother, by the fear of my people, by of hatred of a small child. My heart, filled with love, burns bright as I thrust down, my body presenting no resistance, no fight or protest at the invasion. I remove my hand, hang still, watching and waiting as if expecting to be suddenly, magically, pulled into this body. When nothing happens, I lean back, feeling the breeze brush my hair into my eyes. I move my hand to secure it, to tuck it behind my ear, but not a hair is out of place. Without a heart, I think, I must be going mad.

The wind blows again, and I feel the tickling brush of hair on my nose. I drag my hand against my face, pressing hard, but the sensation continues. Movement catches my attention, and my eyes flick down to rest on my body, face obscured by hair, blowing with the breeze. I stand up, back, and stumble away. I pick up a rock, a smooth edged pebble, and throw it at myself, wincing as I feel it connect with my leg and stay there, the weight pressing on my thigh despite the fact I am feet away, and standing.

The pulling feeling is returned, stronger now, insistent, curling around my limbs, clutching at my ribs. I am short of breath, panting against the restraint, each rise and fall of that other chest laboring my own. I feel the weight of the cloth around my neck, feel the press of the cold earth underneath me, damp seeping into my skin, a stone hard and uncomfortable under my hip.

My vision swims, soft yellowness creeping in from the sides. I know this feeling, this loss of sight. It feels like the moment before fainting, the moment before dying. I remember how Emma hung above me, that night in the town hall, how my arm pulled her unerringly to me, pressing our lips together in final communion. I remember desperation and longing I saw in her eyes, and I give myself over to the darkness, gone before I hit the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

The wind is in my hair again, the loose strands tickling my skin. I move to sit up, to brush the offending feeling away, but I am heavy, slow and stiff. I blink, eyes shutting against the harsh brightness of the light and do not remember hitting the floor. Gathering myself, I focus all of will, concentrating on my muscles, forcing them to obey, and I sit up, sharp pain lancing up my side. Irritated by the incessant tickle of lace at my throat, I reach up and pull the lace away, the dress parting with a loud rip.

My hand, under my own control again, flits to my side, pressing against the sticky wound, as if that could alleviate the pressure. I wonder, for a moment, if I can stand, before I remember myself, and send a snaking tendril of magic from my fingers, allowing it to curl around the edges of the wound, knitting the skin together, speeding the growth of new skin. Before long, I am exhausted, and the thin skein of smoke floats away into the breeze. The cut on my side is closed, now, the newly purpling scar raised and livid. It's not my best work, and the infection still swims underneath, but it will suffice until I am stronger.

My stomach grumbles in complaint, and I have to wonder how long I have been without food. The time spent with Emma, hiding in that darkened room, passed immeasurably, days and nights blurring and moving erratically. It has been weeks, I suppose, perhaps months, and the realization makes me ravenous. I stand, groaning involuntarily at the weakness in my legs, and the unfamiliarity of this mode of dress, and stumble towards the abandoned saddle bags. Inside I find the poorly packed provisions that Snow's household had provided – dried, salted meat, unleavened bread, a hunk of festering cheese – and fight my distaste for them and eat.

Now that I am restored to my body, my magic, there will have to be changes. I will not submit to the rule of Snow White, even for the sake of her daughter and our son, and nor do I have any intention of surrendering to their brand of justice. There will be no begging for forgiveness, no apology for past sins, unless, of course, Snow White is as meek as Mary Margaret. I can see Snow's face as she forces out her plea for my forgiveness, her gritted teeth and clenching fists, the way her expression will screw as she awaits my decision, and the way it will feel as I kindly deign to agree. Yes Snow, I will forgive you, for Emma's sake.

Forgiveness granted, I will leave with my family, my wife and child, and return, not to my castle, reeking of death and decay as it must, but to my family home, the place of my lost youth and innocence. I will burn the stables, and in their place I will plant an orchard, rows of rows of apple treesOnce there, I will ensure we are not disturbed, free from the burden of governance, the responsibility of others' lives, and we will be, I dare say, disgustingly happy. Perhaps, though, my first move will be to employ decent kitchen staff so I do not have to suffer again such heinous crimes against cooking. I must admit, although I hate to admit it, the food fortifies me, and I can feel some strength returning to my limbs.

For the first time, I spare the time to listen for the distant sounds of battle, the clash of swords, the crack and fall of burning trees, perhaps, I hope, the dying cry of a dragon. I strain my ears, yet I hear nothing. The trees can deaden sound, but I would expect some to filter through the canopies: the cries of men and beasts are not so easily erased. Instead, as I listen, I hear soft footfalls approaching. They surround me, converging on my location from several angles at once, and I know that this cannot be Emma and the wolf returning. Two people, only one skilled in woodcraft, cannot sound like a whole squad of soldiers.

I stand, planting the heels of my boots firmly in the earth for balance, and sweep my hair up and into its usual pose with a flick of my wrist. As before, I call on my magic, letting it snap through my recently returned body, my skin pricking under its onslaught, and small bolts of lightning, blue and quick, dance between me and the ground. The approaching feet are closer now, almost within sight, and as the first man appears before me, I send a blast of magic straight for his chest. Enough to stun, and hurt, but not enough to kill. I can fight these men, but I could not fight Maleficent, were she their master. I must maintain my innocence, in the eyes of both sides, if that return to my childhood home is to remain a possibility. Man after man rushes me, each falling limp and boneless to the floor, harmless feet from me.

I feel once more like myself, magic and power coursing through me, and I laugh as each fails, their stumbling efforts pitiable, even weakened as I am. From behind me, a muffled order is called, and the waves of soldiers halt. Pulling my shoes from the soft ground I turn to face their commander, and there stands Emma, clothes singed, sword dangling from her grasp.

A warmth floods my chest, and I feel the laugh change. It's not mirthless, heartless, power-crazed or sardonic, it's not the laugh of an evil queen. It's laugh of a woman, as she surprises her lover, and it's not one I had ever expected to hear myself laugh again.

"You took your time, dear," I say, and then we are moving towards each other, sword dropping forgotten at her feet. I am pulled with a growing urgency, one mirrored in Emma, and we collide at almost full pace, hands grasping and clutching, as we each check the other is real, and alright. Her hands drift to my injury, pressing and caressing, eyes frantically searching for evidence of any unsealed wound. I catch her chin, pull her face to meet mine, and press our lips together. I do not care about our audience and, judging by Emma's passionate reply, my lover does not either. Her head dips, kissing and biting at my neck, the ripped lace providing her unfettered access, hands gripping me ever tighter, kneading and soothing, bunching fabric in her fists, and I think, that if I am not careful, I shall end exposing more of myself to the onlookers than I care to. I pull away, and look across her shoulder to where Red Riding Hood stands, visibly shocked. I smile, self-satisfied, and wave a hand at the saddle bags and horses.

"Take care of these things," I say, and in a swirl of smoke Emma and I are transported.

It has been too long, my magic still too weak, and we land together heavily, laid on the floor of that darkened room, Emma's repulsive chair at our feet. Our arms are still clutched around each other, legs intertwined, her raised knee pressing delightfully against my centre. I moan, and my eyes slip closed as she rocks against me, and I bend down to fasten my mouth to her neck, in turn.

We would have stayed there, on the floor, locked in our heated embrace, but our heavy landing has drawn attention, and guards burst through the door. They stop, frozen in their tracks, and then heavy hands descend and pull me roughly away. Emma lays there, for a second, face flushed, chest heaving, before she stands.

"Let her go!" she says, and although they hesitate, they do obey her. My ankles wobble in the boots, high and precarious, but I do not fall, Emma's hand at my elbow steadying me. One of them leaves, retreating through the door to fetch Snow and James, and I know that it is only moments before they arrive. It seems that Emma does too, for she pulls me close and rests her forehead on mine.

"Regina," she breathes, her voice catching uncontrolled, "I thought you were dead." She swallows, convulsively, around the obvious lump in her throat. I kiss her cheeks, and then aim for her lips, but she turns her head, places her hand between us. "I didn't know how to go on without you. I couldn't –" she trails off, before raising her head, looking me square in the eye.

"I love you," she says, and, although I earlier demanded she tell me, I never had to make her. I understand her message now, just as I understood her then. The change, I know, is in my understanding of myself.

"I love you, Emma Swan," I say, and lean forward, and kiss her, hands cupping her cheeks, my body pressed soft and tight against her, willing her to understand as well. Yet again our moment is disturbed by the entrance of Snow White. This time, at least, the look of stupid surprise is gone from her face, her hands stay sensibly by her sides, and no warning issues from her mouth. I step back from Emma, although our hands stay gripped together, incline my head in her direction – a mark of respect that the Evil Queen would never display, but that a daughter-in-law might.

"Snow White," I say, and pause as James clatters breathlessly into the room as well, "James. I am returned, as you see." James advances, sword drawn, but twin glares from his wife and child halt his progress. I smile, disarmingly, calling the Mayor to mind, pulling my politician's life about me. "Fear not, I ask only one thing."

A tug on my hand redirects my attention to Emma, stood frowning at me, lips pursed adorably. I smile at her too, this more genuine, and remember her claim to be a human lie detector. A laugh huffs from my mouth, and surprise crosses the monarchs' faces.

"Well, alright, two things. Firstly, I ask for clemency – to be allowed to return to my family home and live out my days in quiet contemplation." Snow lets out a strangled noise, perhaps intended to be a snort of disbelief, or impassioned rebuttal, but Emma silences her and I continue. "In return I will be bound by oath never to harm the citizens of the Enchanted Forest, or any member of the royal family, and never to seek power again." There's a pause, a moment of dead silence, and I can see Snow weighing her options. She thinks me lying, thinks that leopards and witches cannot change their spots so easily. There's no motivation for me to leave so peaceably, and her sharp eyes jump up to mine.

"And second?" she spits. James' hand tightens on his sword hilt, feeding off his wife's tension and suspicion.

"Second, your Majesty," I say, softly, and sigh, "secondly I ask for your, and your husband's, permission to seek the hand of your daughter in marriage." Emma tugs again at my hand, sharply, and I turn to face her, worrying my lip uncharacteristically between my teeth. Her mouth is open, her throat working with unsaid words. A small body barrels into mine, arms wrapping around me.

"Mom!" Henry cries, and I sweep him up into my arms, grimacing at his weight. An eleven year old is rather heavier than the child I first brought home, but he clings to me, and I hold him tight, supported. His clothes are crumpled and creased, and he has ink above his brow, wiped from sweaty hands into his hair. There will be time later to ensure he knows how a prince behaves, but for now, in this moment, I am happy to let it slide. I do not realise I'm crying until Emma reaches up and wipes tears across my cheeks with her thumb. She smiles at me, gently, and the image of us, at my childhood home, springs again to my mind.

Snow is spluttering in the corner, muttering unconnected words, pacing and gesticulating fiercely.

"Leave, by all means, just go," she says, "but the other thing – I won't allow it. Never, you hear me?" James places his hand on her arm, smiling at his daughter.

"Snow," he says, "I don't think it's our choice, who Emma marries. And I reckon she's made up her mind already, long ago." In reply Emma smiles at me and Henry, for a moment her magic glowing about her, encasing us in its warmth, before fading away. She tangles her hand in mine, and I know that there are still things to be decided. Maleficient, for one, is undefeated, and Rumpelstilitskin is a threat even when imprisoned. There are matters of state to attend to, the detail of my exile or pardon, weddings and christenings to plan, kingdoms to rebuild. For me, however, none of that hold importance, my mother's ambitions and my desire for revenge, all slaked and gone.

Yes, there are still things to be done, but from now on, Emma, Henry and I do them together. And that, I dare believe, is what happy endings are built with.

**_Finis_**


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